Sense and Insensibility
by DesertC
Summary: Hermione is afflicted by a curse. Her hyper-attuned senses mean that the entire world overwhelms her. She returns to Hogwarts in the hope that it can be the haven she needs. But she finds that it provides far more than she ever expected.
1. Sense and Insensibility

I do not own Harry Potter or any other characters/things/places created by J.K. Rowling. I make no money from my fan-fiction.

A/N: So I was half way through 'Vati's reward' when this came out of the blue so I had to make a start. Things have been a bit tough lately so this is my therapeutic corner. Please bear with me. As with all my fics, rated M for a reason. DSxx

* * *

 _Burning_. The sunlight burns her eyes. She can feel it—dry heat scorching her corneas despite her dark glasses, despite being huddled in the recesses of an absurdly voluminous umbrella. She tugs the hunched beast lower until she can barely see at all.

 _Crunch_. _Scrunch_. The gravel jitters and grinds under the soles of her boots. She grimaces. Nails down a chalkboard. Every scrape of stone against stone sets her teeth on edge, jaw locked, nerves jangling.

"Squawk!" A bird call stops her in her tracks. She raises a hand to cover one ear only. The other strangles the umbrella. Lifting her head slightly, she squints at the castle. _Not far_.

She resumes walking, her boots rubbing uncomfortably despite being her most worn pair. The silken stockings are doing little to protect her sensitive skin against the friction of each step.

A breeze, gentle by most standards, stops her once again. She holds her breath. The way it whips her skin is unpleasant enough but the stench that it carries, rotting weeds from the banks of the Black Lake make her insides twist. She'd never noticed it before. Either it is new or she is different. She is under no illusions as to the answer.

Reluctantly releasing a shuddering breath, knowing that the olfactory assault is set to continue, she struggles forward. A lone figure appears on the road before her. Breeze tugging at her dark robes, Professor McGonagall approaches, she reaches out a hand before remembering and withdrawing it.

"Good to see you, Hermione." The welcome is laced with pity, as is her withered expression.

"Yes . . . it's a relief to finally be here." Hermione responds quietly, stretching the fingers that have cramped around her umbrella.

"Have you eaten?" Professor McGonagall's brow furrows, creating further seams of concern that rumple her features.

"Yes." Hermione lies. She knows she looks gaunt, sickly. But eating is not something she is willing to attempt. Not now.

"Then perhaps you are up to attending the meeting this afternoon? I intend to use it inform the rest of the staff of your position here."

"Of course." Hermione manages a small smile.

Minerva tentatively reaches forward and touches her very lightly on her small, tight fist. "I'm pleased that we were able to help you, Hermione. Merlin knows you deserve it. If any of the staff make you feel unwelcome, I insist that you inform me immediately. No one has a clue as to what you have been through. You really do deserve this role as much as anyone."

Hermione nods, trying not to flinch at the old woman's touch, smooth and dry like onion skin.

"And you deserve to feel safe here." As Minerva's clear green gaze reaches behind her glasses, Hermione is grateful that her own tears remain hidden. There have been too many. For far too long. All she wants is for it to stop. All of it.

Severus Snape glides soundlessly along the dungeon corridors, his shadow twisting like a phantom about his legs as he swiftly navigates corners, leaving torches guttering in his wake. Rapidly ascending the stone stairs, his body seems to occupy a realm of illusory magic, his smooth grace giving him the appearance of floating, layered robes adding to the impression as they are lifted on the unforgiving drafts that scuttle by like Peeves' mischievous progeny through the dank passages.

Rounding a corner, he halts. Black eyes partially obscured by the overhang of heavily knitted brows, he quickly surveys the meandering mob of students, determining the most rapid route to negotiate the group, and taking it.

The gasps at his elbows as he nudges rapidly through the throng are, no doubt, expressions of relief at him passing by without so much as a withering gaze. After all, his presence to many is as ominous as that of a marauding Dementor. Some call him the 'Black Ghost.' Others are less flattering.

Long, efficient strides have him at the staffroom door a few short minutes later, levering his lapels around his neck and dragging long breaths through flaring nostrils. He has mastered the art of moving expeditiously without appearing rushed. The illusion throughout his life mattered. In his existence as a spy, it mattered. Now it is simply a hangover from that time—a habit that will never leave him, along with many others, equally useless but impossible to dislodge.

He flexes his broad shoulders and lifts his chin. The mundanity of a staff meeting just prior to dinner is most unwelcome, and his tardiness will, no doubt, be noted as a petty act of defiance to that effect.

"Professor Snape." Minerva McGonagall's soft brogue is upon him before his boot has even breached the threshold.

"Headmistress." He inclines his head as he continues to forge into the stuffy room, filled with bodies and the tetchy tension of a meeting perilously close to dinner time.

"As I was explaining," Minerva continues, her displeased gaze fixed upon him, lips puckered at their perfect lemon-sucking best. "We are fortunate to have found an appropriate candidate to fill the Muggle Studies position so close to the start of term. This person has only recently completed her teacher training but she is extremely well suited to the role and will, no doubt, approach the position with the same diligence and focus as she did her studies here as a student of Hogwarts."

Snape casts his gaze over the faces of those around him; most appear puzzled. He catches snippets of conversation. "Past student . . . ?"

"So I will now ask our newest Hogwarts staff member to say a few words. Please make her welcome . . . Hermione Granger."

Frowns deepen. Even a few mouths drop open.

And the room descends into silence as, from a corner, emerges a figure Snape hasn't noticed upon entry. He stiffens in shock.

Despite the dark glasses which hide much of her face, it is clear from the parts that are visible that she is severely emaciated, her cheeks gaunt and hollowed. Never an entirely robust figure, she now appears so thin and pale that he wonders if she has a terminal disease of some sort and, if so, why she would be offered a teaching position at Hogwarts.

She clears her throat to speak and he is somewhat surprised to hear her strong, clear voice carry across the room. It is difficult to reconcile the visuals and the vocals which are absolutely dissonant. This is not the woman who left . . . and yet it is whom she confidently claims to be.

"I am extremely grateful to have been offered the position of Professor of Muggle Studies here at Hogwarts, which I considered my home for what were truthfully the best years of my life." A faint smile curls the corners of her pale lips. "I very much look forward to working with all of you to ensure that I deliver the best possible educational experience to our students. There is so much I wish to learn from you and I sincerely hope to be able to support you in return. Thank you."

As she delivers a single tentative nod, a stilted round of applause breaks out. Most of the staff turn to regard one another in wonder but Snape notices her wince as her hands surge up toward her ears before, with obvious effort, she returns them to her sides. _What in Merlin's name has happened to her?_

But before the diminutive elephant in the room is addressed, Minerva quickly ushers her to the door, allowing her to pass through before delivering a stern gaze to the rest of them as though they had somehow engaged in something improper. Then she is gone.

"What just happened?" Flitwick cranes his neck to look up at him.

"No idea."

"Headmistress, what on earth is going on?" Snape strides into Professor McGonagall's office without waiting for his sharp knock to be answered.

"I would have thought that had been made quite clear at the meeting," Minerva responds calmly, peering at him over her spectacles.

"It was as clear as mud as you would be well aware." Snape crosses his arms expectantly, his imposing frame looming over her desk.

Minerva regards his posturing with disdain. "As I explained earlier, Severus, Miss Granger has accepted the Muggle Studies position and will be starting in the role at the beginning of term."

"Miss Granger?" he hisses, a sardonic sneer curling his lips.

"Yes."

"And you really think that emaciated creature is up to it?"

Minerva sighs and replaces her quill back in its holder before standing to address him.

"I have the utmost confidence in her ability to undertake the role as required. I have further confidence that she will receive the full support of the Hogwarts staff and students to assist her in that role."

"She . . . is . . . ill," he grinds out. "Is that not patently obvious to you?"

Minerva inclines her head in acknowledgement. "She is unwell. However, I believe that we can assist her to improve."

"We?"

"Yes. All of us."

Snape shakes his head, an incredulous frown creasing his brown. "St Mungos can assist her to improve. We do not have a specialist facility for whatever ails her. It is most improper to expect a school to accommodate an individual in that state."

Minerva steps out from behind her desk and approaches him, keeping her clear gaze upon his until she is only a pace or two away.

"She needs our help, Severus. Mine. Yours. All of us. And she deserves it. You of all people should understand that."

"And if she deserves help. She should receive it. From those qualified to deliver it," he replies tersely. "We are not in the business of rescuing people."

"Are we not?" Minerva's eyes widen as she regards him meaningfully.

Snape huffs and turns away, taking a few steps before rounding on her. "And what if it were someone else? Draco Malfoy, for example? Turning up in a similar condition, requesting a Professorial role? Would he be similarly accommodated?"

He watches as her lips clamp together, her hands folding into a knot before her.

He sneers.

"I thought not."

"This isn't personal no matter what you would choose to believe," she responds levelly.

"Bollocks."

The low mutter isn't lost on her. "You may, in fact, be the person best positioned to assist her."

"And how did you come to such a ridiculous conclusion?" he growls angrily.

"She requires specialised treatment, as you indicate. However, such a treatment does not currently exist. It will need to be developed."

Snape's frown deepens and his lips fall apart slightly as her meaning coalesces. "And what would possess me to waste time that I do not have on such an endeavour?"

"Your kindness, Severus," she states simply.

Snape delivers a contemptuous glare before turning from her.

"And you will be located in close proximity to one another."

"What?!" He whirls around.

"We have transformed the large dungeon storeroom into living quarters for her."

"Living quarters? It is barely suitable to house ingredients, let alone a human being. There isn't even a window."

"It is what she wanted."

"What she wanted?" His cheeks flush with fury. "And I suppose that what everyone else wants is of no consequence whatsoever?"

"Severus . . . Please." Minerva's shoulders drop resignedly.

"This is a mistake. For the staff. For the school. And for Miss Granger, herself." He gesticulates widely before allowing his hand to drop with a sigh. "Albus would have consulted."

"Well, you killed him so unfortunately that is no longer an option."

Snape's black eyes burn, hurt melting into anger, before he turns one last time and disappears, robes flapping fiercely behind him.


	2. Ebony and Ivory

A/N: Thank you for your kind wishes. DSx

* * *

She hesitates. Voices rumble behind the closed door. Then laughter. Mocking—though not directed at her, reminding her of how long it has been since she's allowed herself to indulge.

When she'd stood before this door as a student it was usually with trepidation, waiting to alert a Professor to some horror, or having been summoned to answer some incriminating question.

Now, preparing to enter that hallowed room alone, she is horrified to find the heat of shame flooding her cheeks once more—an admission of fraudulence, of guilt without a single accusation even being levelled at her. She is more than aware, however, that her hard-earned qualification has already been overshadowed by her unscheduled arrival, as well as her appearance. The mutters and glances are not new to her. But they hurt. As deeply as the throbbing pain that has commandeered her joints, a constant and exhausting companion.

She swallows as her hand hovers tentatively over the handle. She's a masochist—she must be to submit herself to more of this. But hiding herself away isn't going to gain her acceptance. She needs to be visible—even if it causes uniform discomfort amongst those whom she should now consider colleagues.

Grasping the handle with a gloved hand, she twists, pushing the door open.

Conversations immediately stop, sentences hang unfinished. Faces as familiar to her as family look to her as a stranger. Shielded behind her dark mask, her entire body almost completely covered, she understands the disquiet. But it is still her. She's still in there.

Taking hesitant, self-conscious steps into the room, she makes her way over to a table set with cups, saucers and a magically heated teapot. Pouring herself a cup, she casts a hasty cooling charm and brings it to her lips, finally looking up.

Rapid glances away. A few mouths pressed together in those inverted, apologetic smiles.

She realises then that she has made a mistake. They should have been informed. All of them. Minerva had considered it best not to alert them to her arrival in case there had been objections. But she should have insisted. It wasn't fair to expect them to accept her in this way. Clearly they suspected a level of subterfuge and possibly preferential treatment. And in some ways they were right. But perhaps not in the manner they thought.

 _Is it too late for explanations? Or could it even be too early?_

She sighs into her cup. This is not what she'd hoped for. She'd been seeking sanctuary—a soft place to land after so much turmoil. But she clearly wasn't the only one dealing with trauma. Witches and wizards alike had become naturally distrustful after the war. It was as though they didn't know how to dismantle the thorny barriers they'd erected—they'd forgotten how to trust.

And in many ways she is just as guilty. In fact she is liable to jump on anyone who suggests—

"You should take sugar."

A jerk of her hand sends tea slopping to the floor as she turns her head toward the voice. She is greeted by a wall of newspaper.

"I'm . . . sorry?"

After a moment, the paper smartly folds back to reveal a face that she hasn't seen up close in nearly eight years. It has changed surprisingly little. The disapproving frown is still a permanent fixture, the dark eyes still measuring out some withering critique.

"You should take sugar . . . with your tea."

"Oh." She glances down at her cup. "I'm afraid I . . . can't."

Snape's lips press together, adding a further layer of disdain before he flicks the newspaper back up.

"Or won't."

Hermione frowns at the muttered jibe before a surge of anger floods her.

Clearly he thinks he is protected by the paper. He probably also realises that she is unlikely to make a scene.

Drawing a steadying breath, she steps around the side of his armchair and crouches to eye level. Leaning forward, she rests her elbows on the arm of the chair, the teacup held precariously over his lap. They are both hidden from the room by the paper and she is hidden from him by the glasses.

His eyes dart in alarm towards her before he attempts to continue reading.

"Do not presume to know me," she breathes. "I did not choose this. Nor am I anorexic. I would prefer you to ask me outright than to make such offensive inferences."

He scowls at the teacup that had begun to shudder slightly in her frail hand. "You presume that I wish to know," he replies, flicking the paper irritably.

Her jaw tightens. "Then if you are as disinterested as you claim . . . I'd appreciate if you would kindly keep your nose out of my business."

She straightens with difficulty before turning her back to him. "As challenging as that would clearly be," she mutters, loud enough for him to hear, before dumping her cup back on the table and striding from the room.

She can hear him crumpling the paper in fury. In fact, she can hear everything. Every look. Every unspoken word.

* * *

Stepping into the dungeon classroom provides some relief. Despite the fact that she can practically taste the damp earthiness of the ancient stone walls, it is comfortably dark—for her at least. The students seem less at ease, peering at one another in the gloom, muttering and squinting at the blackboard. She tentatively removes her glasses, the low lamps flaring at the edges of her shuttered gaze as she slowly adapts.

More students enter the door, she catches it before it thumps closed a second time, smiling at their surprised faces despite her nerves rattling like the old latch. She murmurs her 'hello' to each and they respond in similarly muted tones. She is thankful. For this is the most frightening part.

She is so desperate to communicate that it already aches like some bitter misunderstanding, she so wants to teach them, to assist in their learning. But she is terrified, unhinged by the unpredictability. Not theirs. But hers. Of her body. And what lies within.

But she has to trust. She has to believe that they will make it work . . . she and the students, striving toward a common goal. Failure is her greatest fear in that moment but she must simply allow herself to be—

He passes. An apparition. Accusing black eyes following her as she closes the door, frown slicing into the bridge of his nose, pale fingers curling around stiffly buttoned sleeves. She couldn't feel any more undeserving in that moment. But, in reality, he can't take any more from her. She has already lost everything.

She pauses against the closed door, gloved hands resting lightly, drawing shallow breaths. She absolutely must make this work.

And so she begins.

She introduces herself, bold and enthusiastic—borne of a desperation that she hopes is not too transparent. The students are courteous and attentive, and remain so throughout, whilst retaining a pleasant undertone of delight and mischief that will unfortunately be lost in years to come.

They are intrigued by her descriptions of Muggle communication, handling her mobile phone like some sort of sacred relic. They line up to practice tapping on her laptop keyboard and to examine her email account which she has carefully vetted.

She plays a video clip demonstrating how televisions work and describes the internet as best she can, watching their faces open like flowers as they gradually realise that the Muggle approach is perhaps not summarily inferior to magic. In fact, the more she describes 'Muggle magic' in terms of technology and innovation, the more spellbound they become. It is what she had hoped—for future generations to not only understand the world of Muggles, but to have their curiosity sufficiently piqued to inspire them to inquire, explore and even embrace the cohabitants of this world from which they seem to naturally remain surprisingly separate.

As the end of the lesson approaches, she sets a battery-operated compact disc player on the desk. Only two students raise their hands to indicate that that they have encountered the device before. Others stare wide-eyed, clearly thirsting to learn more. Pressing a button, she starts the music playing—gently rolling chords signifying the start of 'Clocks' by Coldplay. They crowd forward, watching the silvery disc spinning as she describes how it is 'read' by a miniature laser.

Everything is progressing better than she could have dreamed. She wonders now on the irrational basis of her fear.

But then it happens.

Someone finds the volume switch. And flips it to maximum.

A sound bolt spears into her brain, her skull shudders, threatening to explode. She collapses, arms wrapped around her head, vision narrowing into an excruciating tunnel of pain.

She doesn't realise that she is screaming until the noise suddenly shuts off. And another sound replaces it. A voice. Deep . . . surprisingly gentle.

"Professor Granger suffers from . . . migraines—triggered by excessive noise."

"But w . . . we didn't know, Professor," one frightened voice pipes up.

"Indeed . . . But now you do."

Hermione cracks her eyes open; a dark form stands before her—tall, rigid.

"Class dismissed." He lifts only the ring and little finger of the hand that rests lightly on her desk, the gesture enough to send the students scattering back to their bags, packing hastily and exiting without a word.

He suddenly turns on the spot, swinging like a rattle-drum to glare down at her. She struggles to stand, pulling herself up by her chair, the reverberation still coursing through her ears.

"Did you not foresee such an eventuality—from a group of second years, no less?" he snaps. "Had you made no preparations?"

Hermione runs a hand down her cheek, the rough prickle of her glove like a trail of thorns, focusing her mind.

"I . . . I'm reluctant to cast a silencing incantation in class," she stammers. "I'm determined for the quietest students to have a voice."

He rolls his eyes. "How very admirable of you. I didn't realise that teacher training still employed such trite expressions."

She drops her eyes from his, feeling ridiculous.

"Have you attempted nothing else?"

She can't answer for a moment. His tone has hacked another chunk from her diminishing self-confidence. She swallows before responding, her voice a whisper. "What would you suggest?"

He huffs irritably. "For someone who took the expression 'know-it-all' to new heights, Miss Granger, I find your question disingenuous. Perhaps you suppose I have nothing better to do than to indulge you?"

At one time she did have all the answers. At least she thought she did. But not anymore.

"I would appreciate any advice you can give, Professor," she looks at him squarely, honestly.

His eyes narrow, arms folding across the rigid plane of his chest. "There are any number of possible approaches—physical manipulation of the ears, narrowing of the auditory canal, diminishing the arc of the pinna, tightening the ossicles. However, an inversion of a generalised Sonorous spell may provide what you are after. It would need to be cast as a space-occupying incantation rather than on a particular target, the inversion would enable a gradation of diminished sound to you. You could adjust it to the desired level but be protected from escalations such as occurred today."

She blinks. A small spark of hope flares. It is . . . brilliant. Completely unorthodox but entirely possible. She is tempted to wonder why she hasn't thought of it previously but the answer is clear. It takes a mind like his. Not one like her own that has been shocked into a barely pulsing jellyfish, often incapable of even a basic stimulus response.

"I . . . I believe that might work."

He regards her warily before apparently deciding that he's wasted enough time. Inhaling rapidly, he turns from her and strides toward the door.

"Thank you for your help," she calls, wincing at the jolt created by her own voice.

He stops, before turning slowly. "I did this for the students. Frankly, I'm of the belief that you shouldn't be here. I sympathise with your circumstances but as a teacher one must be prepared to put the students' needs before one's own. If one finds that they are unable to do so, they should reconsider their aptitude for such a role."

His words come with a dark honesty that leaves her feeling hollow, bereft. Then he leaves. And as quickly as it flared, that tiny spark dies.


	3. Fire and Ice

The flames elongate as the candles burn down. Hermione watches their golden tapers waver as she sighs. Over an hour. That must be a record. She nudges the pale vegetables around her plate with her fork as she struggles to swallow a mouthful of bread. Whilst the bland food is tolerable to her tastebuds, it certainly isn't inspiring. The discomfort of swallowing and even the filling of her stomach makes each bite a battle. She finally drops her fork with a clatter, hardly believing that she used to enjoy this.

Leaning back in her chair, she closes her eyes and rolls her neck gently from side to side. At least she can be grateful that she's managed to remain upright. Snape's suggested incantation had worked exactly as he'd indicated. It hadn't taken her long to master the wandwork and the relief of knowing that there wouldn't be a repeat of the earlier horror had been enough to sustain her. Now exhaustion drags her insistently toward the small bed in the corner of her room. But she won't succumb. Not yet.

Straining to prise apart her heavy lids, she allows her gaze to slide around the tiny space. Whilst it has been cleverly transfigured, it still bears a strong resemblance to a storage cupboard. The shelves house her book collection and a tea set that had once belonged to her grandmother. Apart from the bed, there is a modest chest for her clothes, a desk, and a small table with two chairs at which she now sits. A tiny magical fireplace has been included so that she can Floo the House Elves to request meals and to enable communication with Minerva since there is no window through which owls can enter or exit.

It actually isn't the worst dwelling she's ever occupied. And at least she feels safe. The absence of a bathroom is somewhat inconvenient, but while the shared facility down the corridor is used by students during the day, she has it to herself at night. Minerva was kind enough to add a bath since showering had become impossible, and this is where she now heads, toiletries bag in hand.

A major downside is the fact that she must pass the entrance to Snape's chambers on the way. It is quite clear that her arrival, for him, is most unwelcome, and no doubt he despises her presence in his dungeon domain. Desperate to avoid engaging with him any more than necessary, she holds her breath as she tiptoes past. The last thing she needs at the end of a trying day, one that has had her questioning anew the purpose of her agonising life, is further disparaging remarks—or worse, no remarks at all, just his disapproving gaze, something she had known only too well as a student and is set to endure as a member of staff.

Sighing with relief, she closes the bathroom door behind her and flicks a single flame into a sconce against the wall. Filling the tub almost completely, she carefully adjusts the water temperature before removing her soft slippers and even softer dressing gown and gradually allowing one toe to dip into the creeping warmth of the water. It is the one activity that brings her some relief, respite from a world that constantly seeks to discomfort and discombobulate her.

It takes several minutes for her to sit and finally completely submerge her body. Her skin cries out with each fresh sensation, draining her further until she feels she would gladly fall unconscious. But with her hearing dulled by the water, eyes falling closed, faint scent of lavender crowding out the mouldy stench of the bathroom and body drifting weightlessly, she can finally think clearly . . . only to instantly wish for the fog to reclaim her. The reality of her circumstances hits her with full force; her throat constricts, the water rippling its sorry lament as she shudders despairingly. She is alone. She has no one.

When she'd made the decision to release her friends from the burden of her friendship, she'd done so out of love. She was severely agoraphobic and aware that people found her condition upsetting. Her good friends would have understood, or at least tried to, but she couldn't be the sort of friend she wanted to be. It was better that they conversed occasionally by enthusiastic empty letters than in person. At least that way she could pretend to be normal.

She trembles quietly. And this is the result—no close friends, family Obliviated, masquerading as a competent teacher when it is clear to everyone that she is nothing of the sort.

Snape was right. She had put her needs, her desperation for a life of any sort, ahead of those of the students. It had been a last ditch hope, without much thought as to the reality of what she was asking both staff and students to accommodate.

Tears leaked from her eyes, slipping into the water like rivulets into an ocean. And that ocean was hers, a world of sadness to immerse herself in . . . and perhaps to eventually claim her.

* * *

"Headmistress." He nods as he enters her office.

"Severus."

"You wished to see me?"

Minerva notes that he retains an air of annoyance, as though she is already wasting his time. It is his typical countenance over recent years but it still manages to aggravate her.

"Yes. The Ministry for Education has been in contact."

"And?" He arches an impatient eyebrow.

"They have cut our funding."

"What?" His eyebrows plunge together, united in shock and anger. "For what reason?"

"They claim that they cannot continue to subsidise Hogwarts. They reinforced that the original funding commitment was only for five years, and they have already extended that for an additional two years—twice."

"But the repairs aren't yet complete. Don't they realise the extent of the original damage?"

"Of course they do," she replies bitterly. "I hosted the Minister only two months ago—explained that there are classrooms that are still uninhabitable, that the roof requires extensive repairs, the bridge needs reinforcement, and I showed him the Quidditch pitch that was only ever rebuilt as a temporary measure. It requires a complete overhaul."

"And they expect us to fund all of this ourselves?" He folds his arms, his shoulders broadening in indignation. "As well as continuing the maintenance and overheads involved with housing over one hundred children and running a school?"

Minerva removes her glasses and drops them onto the desk before rubbing her eyelids wearily with the fingers of one hand. "It would seem so."

"And what of enrolments?"

"Still down," she murmurs.

Snape opens his long-fingered hand to implore her. "It was the Ministry's role to rebuild confidence in the safety of the school. What happened to that commitment?"

Minerva sighs, a rare bleakness watering down her gaze. "Would you send your child to a school with such a history?"

"It was nine years ago for Merlin's sake," he cries. "We were targeted by one of the most powerful, most evil wizards to ever live."

"We lost too many." Her tone is desolate. "It remains too raw for most."

Snape drops his gaze, dark hair shrouding his grim features.

Minerva knows that look. He still blames himself for not being there—for not assisting in the final battle, despite being as close to death as it is possible to be.

"As a result," she continues quietly, "I'm unfortunately going to have to ask more of our staff. We will need to increase our productivity."

Snape's jaw tightens as his head snaps up. "I am already brewing day and night."

"I understand, Severus, but yours is by far the most lucrative of all of our endeavours. We will also need to increase our rare creature breeding programs, and branch out into a greater variety of magical plants and herbs. But I don't need to tell you that your potions are highly sought-after. They are of a quality that no one else can achieve."

"And there happens to be a reason for that." His tone is cold.

"I do realise we are very fortunate to have you, Severus."

He shakes his head dismissively.

She can't help feeling that he is comparing her leadership, again, to that of Dumbledore—that he's reflecting upon the great wizard and whether he would have allowed things to come to this. Perhaps Dumbledore could have set things on a better trajectory. And perhaps Severus, himself, would have led them in a more prosperous direction if he'd been awarded the role. But such thoughts are clearly futile as they simply need to deal with matters as they are.

"In fact, I considered that Miss Granger may be able to provide the additional assistance that you require."

He glares at her. "Of course. Having her shuddering in a corner will be of immeasurable benefit."

Minerva returns his stern gaze. "She may be rather fragile but she is extremely bright as you know. And with her current condition happens to come certain assets that could be quite valuable."

"Assets?" he sneers. "Forgive me if I fail to share your rose-coloured view of Gryffindor's golden girl."

"Now listen to me." Minerva swiftly rounds the desk to address him. "If you have questions about the manner in which Miss Granger was appointed, you are to address those to me. I will not have you blaming her for what you clearly perceive to be preferential treatment."

"And can you deny such accusations?" he growls. "How is Hogwarts able to afford a new appointment when resources are as limited as you claim?"

Her withered lips twitch with anger. "She is not being paid."

He looks momentarily taken aback before he resorts to his usual defence . . . attack. "So what is she getting out of us?"

"Us?" Minerva hisses the word as her eyes flare. "Out of 'us' she is getting a modicum of tolerance and compassion. Surely even you can manage to dredge a little up from wherever you have buried it."

He opens his mouth to retaliate but she interjects. "Don't you think you owe her that much, Severus?"


	4. High and Low

Hermione watches her own footsteps, once sure, now tentative . . . her gait has changed, hopefully not for good as it doesn't match her intensity, her need, her frustration—it's a functional adaptation—an attempt to minimise the relentless impact.

"Professor Granger?"

Eyes darting sideways, she instantly raises the library book, recently borrowed, to shield herself. A figure steps toward her from the window, silhouetted against painful shards of sunlight. Hermione retreats into the shadow of an alcove and the figure boldly follows her.

"Professor Granger," the young girl addresses her with a disconcerting self-assuredness.

Blinking her glare-dazzled eyes, Hermione attempts to smile.

"I thought you ought to know," the girl continues. "I attended your class yesterday. The one in which you . . . collapsed."

"Oh . . . I see." Hermione's smile strains, threatening to slide away in humiliation.

"I have been doing some research and I'm of the belief that you have hyperaesthesia," the girl announces matter-of-factly. "It's a neurological condition in which the sensory neurons become over-stimulated. There can be a number of causes including changes to the myelin sheath covering the nerve cell axons and even electrolyte imbalances."

The smile returns, genuine this time, creeping up to capture Hermione's features. "I believe you may be right," she responds quietly. "An excellent diagnosis."

The girl's eyes sparkle with pride at her words. "You might be surprised to know that some people don't appreciate what I have to tell them—even when it's the truth."

Hermione gazes at her sympathetically. "Unfortunately I'm not surprised. I knew a girl just like you. She was told that she was an insufferable know-it-all. Just for telling the truth."

"I've been called that too!" the girl cries excitedly. "Professor Snape!"

Hermione slightly inclines her head as she smirks behind her book.

The girl's wonderfully honest face breaks into a radiant smile, making Hermione suddenly wistful for the innocent optimism of her own youth.

"You're an excellent teacher. I loved your class. I just wanted you to know what was wrong with you so you could fix it."

Hermione's eyes flicker to the ground. "I'm doing my best," she murmurs.

"Good," the girl responds excitedly before backing away. "I'll see you tomorrow."

"See you." Hermione lifts her fingers in a small wave.

* * *

Hermione is lost in a parade of passing thoughts—far more positive than she can remember entertaining in recent times. In fact, she is so buoyed by the young girl's kind words that when Snape approaches her in the dungeon corridor, she momentarily forgets that he hates her.

He stares straight ahead, set to ignore her, when she inclines her head toward the door to his classroom.

"I fear you may be too late."

He stops abruptly, robes and hair swishing around him. "I beg your pardon?"

"They've all turned," she informs him. "No, wait . . ." Raising her nose she sniffs. "One hasn't. You might catch them before it does."

His contemptuous glare, normally sufficient to send her scuttling away with fear, in her current mood causes her to feel inexplicably amused. A smile tugs at the corners of her lips before she manages to catch it. Of course it is not returned, but he does immediately lunge toward the classroom door and fling it open before stalking in.

Even as the door shuts in her face, it fails to shift her smile. And as she continues toward her room, she wonders at the transformative power of a few words of gratitude. She kicks herself—not literally of course as she wouldn't want him to find her rolling about on the cold dungeon floor—but she does wish she'd taken the time to ask the girl her name.

* * *

Dunderheads didn't even capture it. This lot were utterly useless. He seethes as they tidy up with fear-propelled efficiency around him, Scourgifying the curdled potions from their cauldrons. The confusion adds to his anger. She knew. She had somehow discerned through a closed door that all of the potions had failed . . . with the exception of one. And she'd teased him about it . . . that smile. He grinds his teeth, expecting it to add to the fury burning in his chest but he feels it lower, much lower than that. Inhaling deeply, he quickly dismisses it.

As the students quietly duck their heads and leave, he remains standing in the centre of the room, staring at an empty cauldron in resentment. He snorts angrily. It stinks . . . like yet another blatant manipulation. He'd had enough of this deceptive manoeuvring from Dumbledore—of being backed into corners until he was forced to make a decision, usually to his own detriment.

 _What did he owe her?_ Nothing. He didn't owe anyone—not after what he had been through. And yet the responsibility still sits heavily on his shoulders—no longer to save the Wizarding world from a madman but to save Hogwarts from ruin of a different kind.

 _Is this to be the entire run of his life? Lurching from one crisis to another? Being left to shoulder the blame, to carry the burden of yet another predicament that was not of his doing?_

 _Fuck it_. She could help. He'd suffered more damage than he'd ever let on. His olfactory sense wasn't a fraction of what it had once been. He'd had to rely upon sight and touch alone for both selecting ingredients and determining the status of potions. But it wasn't reliable. There had been considerable waste.

Rubbing his fingers over his chin in contemplation, he suddenly turns and strides toward the door. In a few swift paces he is out and covering the short distance to her room. Pausing to gather himself, he lifts a fist and knocks.

There is a short delay. He contemplates leaving. Then she answers.

"Miss Granger I . . ." he starts strongly enough but falters as he notices she is wearing a knee-length dressing gown and, it appears, not much else.

"Yes?" She places a pale hand against the architrave.

His frown deepens in annoyance that she should be in such a state—it's only late afternoon after all.

"I understand that you may be able to contribute to augmenting the school's potion production."

"Are you asking me to assist?" She looks up at him innocently enough but he can tell she wants more.

He is reluctant to give it.

"Professor McGonagall indicated that you might be available."

"The question remains, Professor." She holds his gaze and he feels a creeping sense of self-consciousness that is unfamiliar and distinctly uncomfortable. "Are you asking me to assist?"

He huffs irritably before finally acquiescing, his voice low and tight. "I suppose."

"Then, I accept." She steps back into her room and begins to close the door.

"When?" he interjects, his boot slipping forward before he stops it, realising how inappropriate it would be to block her door.

She notices, staring down at it before lifting her eyes to his, that small enigmatic smile returning. "Tomorrow afternoon."

"Fine." He glowers, tugging at the buttons over his waist which have suddenly tightened.

Then he turns and storms off.

She looks after him, glimpsing his shadow before it turns the corner, his hand rising to wrench at his collar. She's never seen him harassed like this before. Maybe he's changed . . . Or maybe he remembers.

* * *

He barely glances up as she enters his laboratory the following afternoon. He stirs a cauldron briskly and the bubbling aroma tells her he's brewing a sleeping draught. Despite being informed of the financial difficulties faced by the school in one of her earlier visits with Minerva, she is still somewhat surprised that Snape has approached her to assist. Time will tell if it was the right decision for her to agree.

"Would you like me to chop the Sopophorous beans?" she asks, stepping over to his workbench.

"I've already prepared them," he mutters, eyes trained on the mixture.

She scans the bench. "Crushed asphodel petals?"

"Top shelf." He nods to a cupboard opposite.

She makes her way over, pulling open the door and trailing her fingers along the rows of jars before retrieving the correct one.

Removing the lid, she sniffs the contents.

"When were these harvested?"

"They're fresh." His intonation is one of annoyance as his eyes flicker up to her.

"I don't doubt it. It's just that they're not mature."

His eyes return, still filled with anger, but now something else— _embarrassment?_ He doesn't respond.

She decides to leave it, instead moving over to place the jar on the workbench beside him.

"Essence of nettle?" she asks quietly.

"Are you up to collecting it if it doesn't meet your impeccable standards?" he asks snidely. "Or is it also set to incur your highly discerning criticism?"

She is standing close enough to see a moist sheen glimmering on his temple and tiny droplets slicking his upper lip. He is far more agitated than she'd ever seen him in the past. He'd always brewed with such an easy, almost-insouciant flair that she is shocked to see him in this state. However, if she is there to assist, she doesn't intend to allow him to brew with sub-standard ingredients.

"That depends upon whether it has been similarly incorrectly prepared."

He stiffens noticeably but continues stirring. "Second shelf. Same cupboard."

She retrieves the bottle and, despite his sneer of displeasure, removes the stopper. Holding it at a distance from her highly sensitive nose, she wafts a little toward herself before screwing her eyes closed.

"Now what?"

"Too acrid," she chokes.

"It's supposed to be acrid," he growls.

"And that's why I described it as 'too' acrid—more acrid than it should be."

He sighs before suddenly dropping the stirring rod into the mixture and disappearing the lot with a fierce wave of his hand. He steps over to his desk and sits with a thump before snatching up his quill and beginning to scrawl in long spiky strokes across a roll of parchment.

She waits to be given further instructions but none are forthcoming.

"Are we still brewing?" she asks, pushing the stopper back into the bottle.

"No."

She takes a step toward his desk. "Why not?"

He ignores her.

"Because your ingredients aren't up to scratch? Just order them from somewhere else."

"They aren't _ordered_." He stops writing but doesn't look at her.

"Well, perhaps you should harvest them yourself."

He fixes his obsidian eyes upon her. The motes of white heat burning in them tell her what she had been hoping wasn't the case—he had harvested them.

She had been reluctant to bring it up, but she suspects she knows the reason.

"You suffered nerve damage."

"I don't need your analysis."

"I do understand, Professor." She places both gloved hands on his desk. "I have suffered the same."

"No . . . you haven't," he snarls, leaping up from his seat. "You have _not_ suffered the same."

"I was there," she breathes. "Don't you remember?"

He turns away from her, unnecessarily straightening pots on a shelf. "I recall asking for you to be removed from my room."

"After four months."

"It would have been earlier, had I known."

"Known what? That I had volunteered to help you?"

He snorts with derision before turning to face her. "I hardly consider gawking at me, uninvited, as part of a final year research project to be 'help'."

"It wasn't like that." Her brow contorts with pain. "I read to you. I . . . I worked on your court appeal. I went on to study law . . . after that—to help people like you . . . to gain the acknowledgement that you deserved."

"Indeed," he sneers. "There is never a better teacher than one for whom it is a 'second option'."

"Why do you do that?" she whispers. "Why do you have to make me feel so undeserving? I had to leave law . . . because of this." Her voice breaks in frustration as she pulls at her ridiculous layers of clothing. "I always wanted to make a difference to people's lives. That's why I went into law. It's why I worked my arse off to do my teacher training in only one year . . . And it's why I held your hand every day I was with you . . . even though you were unaware. Despite what you clearly think, I did it out of compassion . . . I did it to help." The last words choke out as she backs away, before turning and fleeing from the room.

His shoulders sink as the door slams closed.

He hadn't been as unaware as she suggested. He just didn't know it was her.


	5. Now and Then

A/N: Hey there, just a shameless plug for another story. If you read 'Doing it for the Order' and enjoyed it, the story has been nominated for 'Best Hermione Characterisation' in the Haven Awards. If you would like to vote for DIFTO and some other fantastic stories please follow this link /forms/afELVBndMJgT0fyf2. Thank you for your support, DSxx

* * *

Moonlight drapes across his pale leg, washes over his stomach turning the fine hairs silver, and ends in a milky sash across one scarred shoulder. The rest of him lies in darkness, all except the shine of his eyes, unblinking as they consider the vast nothingness beyond his high windows.

The same thoughts that had roiled around inside his scrambled brain after he'd been transferred from St Mungo's to Hogwarts now return. Whilst they make more sense all these years later, the disquiet that they bring remains the same.

He can still feel her hands. Small. Impossibly soft. Touching. Soothing. Squeezing reassurance into his.

On most days those hands had belonged to Poppy Pomfrey—at least in his mind. He remembers the fog of immeasurable gratitude he projects to the Mediwitch from behind the bolted shutters of his eyelids, but also the vague surprise at her tender bedside manner which, on past occasions, had always been rather brusque.

On other days those hands had been Lily's. They were children together, lying under the fluttering leaves of the vast tree, hands locked in solidarity. It was just the two of them against the world, making something innocently beautiful, something hope-filled where none had previously existed. On those days he clung to her desperately, sensing with wild, indefinable panic that he might otherwise lose her.

On his worst days those hands had been his mother's. He'd wept and they had comforted him. His mother had allowed his emotions to be; his father had not. Those hands had caressed his forehead, his cheeks, his hands, soothing the tension but never shamefully wiping away the evidence. They were encouraging him to release. And he had.

But when he'd discovered their true owner—the person to whom those hands belonged; when her voice had sounded clearly for the first time after months of muted echoes; when the tangled knots of space and time had finally coalesced into some sort of meaning—he had cast her out. With every ounce of energy he had spurned her. Throat hoarse from the effort he'd screamed, demanding that she leave and never return. And she had . . . until now.

He sighs heavily, eyes roving over his own naked form, scanning the familiar pits and burrs of his torrid existence.

The foundations for his fury were there—lurking in the shame and embarrassment of what she had seen—the understanding that, unbeknownst to him, she had witnessed all that he had spent his life desperately attempting to hide.

One didn't button oneself to within an inch of respiratory failure unless one had a reason to do so. And his ravaged body was testament to his infinite reasons—though carelessly laid bare during his convalescence.

But troubling him more was the personal nature of what he'd potentially disclosed—rambling references to his difficult past, his fears, his sadness, his . . . desires. He would never have allowed her to be there if he'd had the choice. The fact that it had been done involuntarily, sanctioned by a meddling Headmistress looking to further the employability of her favourite, had aggrieved him no end.

But their conversation earlier that day had nonetheless shaken him—the revelation of her involvement in his legal proceedings. It was likely that Minerva had attempted to explain that intention to him all those years ago but he'd been well beyond reasoning by that stage.

While he is now tempted to speculate that the girl's contributions to his subsequent acquittal and Order of Merlin were minimal—he knows that is unlikely to be the case. No doubt her efforts were thoroughly researched and brilliantly argued. Indeed, he'd never seen her produce a piece of work that wasn't.

He stares the moon full-in-the-face and delivers another wretched sigh.

From every angle it unfortunately looks the same. Perhaps he does owe her.

* * *

As Hermione steps into the staffroom she is accosted—Pomona Sprout's mad curls frame a round face beaming in that familiar, but slightly unhinged, way. Hermione immediately wonders at Minerva's involvement in this sudden about-face but then the older woman takes her by the arm and she cringes inwardly, recognising it as simply a kind and spontaneous show of interest, but simultaneously having to summon every ounce of her self-control not to pull away.

Professor Sprout doesn't seem to notice, continuing to guide her toward two chairs by the window as she relates some very nice things that Hermione unfortunately can't respond to as she is too focused upon attempting to turn her face away from the excruciating glare without appearing rude.

On their way, they pass that familiar wall of newspaper signifying the presence of only one other in the room. The black legs beneath are elegantly crossed. She has seen them far less elegant—askew and tangled in bedsheets, writhing in pain.

She wonders at how much he knows of what she knows. It is a conundrum that has occupied her thoughts on many a night—not because she ever thought she would see him again but it became something to occupy her mind throughout years of troubled sleep. She didn't blame him for his vicious outburst. He hadn't been well, even then. But she couldn't pretend that it didn't hurt. Not after—

"And I must say you're looking rather well." Professor Sprout nods encouragingly as Hermione's hand hovers against her forehead, attempting to supplement the cover of her dark glasses.

She doesn't look well. She doesn't even look average. But she does appreciate the sentiment.

"Thank you. I'm pleased to be here."

It hardly makes sense but at least it's the truth.

"Well, we're all pleased to have you. A bit of youth in the teaching team is most welcome—as well as a few new ideas, no doubt."

"Oh yes, I have plenty of those." Hermione nods eagerly. "I wondered if any staff members would be interested in participating in some sort of community of practice around new pedagogies."

She turns as a loud snort erupts from behind the newspaper.

Professor Sprout raises her voice to indicate that she is ignoring him.

"What a splendid idea. I, for one, would definitely be up for that. Perhaps you could stick a sheet of parchment to the wall here to gauge interest?"

"I will," Hermione responds, her voice tight with annoyance.

 _Why does he have to be so damned disparaging?_

"And you are most welcome to attend any of my classes in the greenhouse—if you wish to share ideas," Pomona adds.

"I really appreciate the invitation, Professor, but I'm afraid that the sun does not particularly enjoy my company." Hermione nods to her long sleeves and gloved hands.

"What a wonderful idea!" Pomona suddenly beams. "Night classes! There are an array of nocturnal plants that put on a spectacular show which the students never get to appreciate. I'll share that thought with Professor McGonagall right away!"

And with that she heaves up from her chair and bustles out of the room.

Hermione watches her, both amused and bemused, before noticing that she is now completely alone. Snape must have slipped out—no doubt looking to indulge in further snorting at her expense.

He really is impossible.

Then she notices something—right by her elbow—that same cup that she had hung over his crotch only two days before, now filled with black tea. She leans over and sniffs—no sugar.

Her mouth stretches into a reluctant smile. Even she knows a peace offering when she sees it. _He's still impossible_ , she thinks as she reaches for the cup. But as she feels the temperature and realises that he has also cooled it for her, she decides that there may actually be a whiff of kindness, a smidgen of empathy, left in the man.

Lifting the cup, her smile twists into a wry grin. Sitting on the edge of the saucer is a tiny biscuit. The peace offering comes with a tiny barb. How very Snape.

* * *

"I'll harvest the ingredients for you."

The words come out in a rush as she leans in his laboratory door, not even daring to fully immerse herself in his domain.

It has already taken a ridiculous amount of time for her to summon the courage to return to his laboratory. And even more to decide to just come out with it—to address the elephant in the room head on. Now she just wants the conversation over with, to return to her quarters after a long (but enjoyable) day of teaching, where she can finally rid herself of all these blasted layers.

"How?"

She is already annoyed. _What did he mean 'how'?_

"In the traditional way I imagine, grasping each item between finger and thumb, straining against any resistance and placing them in some sort of receptacle."

Her bold sarcasm isn't lost on him. Even she is surprised by how Snape-like she sounds.

One dark eyebrow arches in annoyance. "You've obviously thoroughly interrogated the matter," he snaps with matching derision. "However, must I remind you that all of the ingredients are located _outside_ —many in the Forbidden Forest?"

"We will harvest at night."

"We?"

"Yes—it would be best if you accompany me."

He spears his quill back into its holder to regard her fully.

"So 'I will harvest the ingredients for you' has now become 'you will accompany me into one of the most perilous forests in the world in the dead of night because I'd prefer not to go out during the day.'"

She exhales loudly, knowing that there is no point in trying to defend herself. She has already promised Minerva that she will assist in whatever way she can—and this is currently the most useful way for her to contribute. If only he could pull his horns in for more than a millisecond at a time.

"Alternatively, if you are confident about the quality of the ingredients that you are currently using, neither of us need bother."

That strikes a nerve. His eyes narrow and his nose twitches almost imperceptibly.

"Fine," he grunts with reluctance.

"I'm free tomorrow evening." She regards him expectantly.

He shrugs. "I suppose."

But as she turns to go he delivers another question, this one imbued with distinctly less hostility.

"Is there anything further I need to know about your . . . condition?"

She is surprised that he's even bothered to ask.

"Just . . . try not to touch me."

He leans back in his chair and crosses his arms. "As irresistible as you consider yourself, I'm confident that I will be able to withstand the temptation."

"That's . . . that's not what I meant," she stammers, her eyes sliding to the ground.

He watches her closely for a heartbeat before flicking his hand dismissively toward the door. "Don't let me keep you."

She leaves without looking at him again.

One corner of his mouth hitches as he gazes after her. Whatever her problem is, her blushing reflex is still in perfect working order.

* * *

 _How hard can it be?_

He glares down at the toilet bowl, still brimming with water. Despite reporting it to Filch hours ago, there didn't appear to be any improvement in the plumbing situation.

Huffing irritably, he turns away and strides with some difficulty out of the bathroom and toward the door to his chambers. He'd been heavily immersed in a new book and is now in quite desperate need of relieving himself.

Walking gingerly out the door and up the corridor, he rushes into the shared bathroom and stops.

"Oh."

He hadn't even considered that she'd be there. But she is. A bronzed silhouette in the low candle light, certain indiscernible curves breaching the glassy water.

He rapidly turns to leave but her voice rings out behind him.

"The toilets are free."

He clenches his fists. He really is struggling to hold on, especially with the gentle sound of lapping water accompanying each of her movements.

"I won't look."

His fists clench even tighter at the amusement in her voice. Of course she won't look, there's a door across each of the stalls. But he can't help thinking that this reference goes deeper than simply pointing out the obvious.

Unable to wait any longer, however, he mumbles something and lunges for the closest cubicle, slamming the door closed so that she has to duck her head under the water to muffle the echo.

But she quickly resurfaces.

She can't help but listen. Well, perhaps she can—but his desperate need to cut her out makes her all the more interested. He hasn't cast a silencing incantation. He probably figures it will make him look paranoid—which he is. But he's obviously more paranoid about appearing paranoid.

He is still surprisingly quiet.

She can hear him targeting the porcelain and she smiles to herself. The sound is deeper than it should be for someone of his height—unless he's crouching closer to the bowl . . . or he's very well endowed.

She happens to know the answer. She's seen him after all—more than once. She wonders if he realises.

A soft rustle as he shakes it. She feels something inexplicably stir. Quickly she suppresses it—having discovered the hard way that there is nothing more excruciating than an itch that she cannot scratch.

He zips, flushes and draws open the door.

She ducks back under the water, allowing him to escape in private. It was quite rude of her to pry after all.

Slicking her hands over her face, she combs her fingers through her hair before emerging with a sigh. Blinking the water from her eyes, she looks up at the mirror and is surprised to find his intense black gaze upon her. By the time she turns to look at him, he is gone.


	6. Light and Dark

A/N: This one happened more quickly than expected. Thank you for your lovely reviews. I so appreciate them. I'll catch up on responses soon. DSxx

* * *

"Are you certain that you wish to . . . proceed?" His doubtful expression, lips drawn together to accentuate the derision, immediately has her back up.

"Yes. Why?" She pulls at her gloves impatiently.

"You appear to be wearing every piece of clothing you own."

"You wouldn't have a clue how much clothing I own," she mutters, pulling open the front door and catching her breath as the biting cold immediately assails her.

He's not wrong. She is wearing a lot. And it's already weighing her down. Still, she doesn't intend to give him the satisfaction of revealing her discomfort. Casting a warming incantation to supplement her copious layers, she strides confidently out the door—at least that is how she wishes to appear— and down the stairs. He follows.

"Did you bring the items I requested?" Her breath materialises and dissipates in the glow of her wand.

He grunts. She assumes that means 'yes.'

Her boots slough through dewy grass as they proceed toward the looming darkness of the forest. Already audible to her sensitive ears is the cracking of shifting branches, the fluttery whisper of owls and the throaty screech of bats. The entire wood is filled with scuttling and rustling, the pads and beats of paws and hooves . . . and within the undergrowth—slithering, crawling and . . . waiting.

She suppresses a shiver. It is by no means the first time she has been in the forest at night but she has forgotten the sheer aura of the place, even beyond the threat of countless dangers, it holds an ancient magic that she feels as a prickling electricity as they enter the shadowy recesses between the trees.

"Perhaps I should lead." His voice is close behind her.

She happens to agree. Stepping off the path, she allows him to pass. Apart from a black overcoat, he is wearing his usual attire. She envies that level of comfort. Her own coat is extremely restrictive with so many layers beneath it. Still, if she is mauled at least there will be plenty of padding before they realise she isn't worth bothering with.

Following his sure-footed strides, she notes that he is alert to everything around them. He picks up the sounds and movements a little later than she, but he misses nothing—simultaneously aware of the obstacles in front of them, and her position behind him, holding branches and bushes out of her way and extending his arm for her to grasp as she negotiates rocks and fallen logs.

He begins to seem almost gentlemanly . . . But then he speaks.

"Why couldn't you continue in your legal role?"

It may have been an innocent enough question but considering that she is now in a different profession, one for which he considers her decidedly ill-equipped, it strikes her as a slight.

"My condition made it prohibitive."

He is silent for a few paces.

"More than it does currently?"

"No."

"So you are, in fact, worse now."

"That would be the logical conclusion from my response."

She wishes she didn't sound so defensive but he is clearly driving at something.

More loaded silence.

"One would have thought your condition could be accommodated in such a . . . regulated profession."

"My employer didn't consider it possible."

That was too much information. She immediately wishes she hadn't said it.

"Were they concerned about their reputation?"

She sighs. "No."

"Was it your performance?"

". . . No."

He is immediately onto that pause.

"You were having a relationship with someone . . . Your boss?"

She doesn't respond but her hands ball into painful fists.

"I suppose that is one way to climb the corporate ladder."

"For fuck's sake!"

Her shriek echoes through the wood, magnified by the shocked silence that follows.

He raises one placating hand as though she is a wild animal about to attack. And that is very much how she feels, ragged breaths wracking her small frame, teeth bared.

"I apologise."

"Don't . . . speak to me," she rasps, throat constricting with pain and fury.

Glaring accusingly at him, she forges past. She would rather face an assailant than have to look at him a second longer.

Stomping through the undergrowth, breathing heavily, she finally emerges into a moonlit clearing adorned with herbs, mosses and flowering plants, glowing in various hues, some bioluminescent.

Wordlessly, she holds out a hand to him and he reaches into his pocket for a jar and tweezers, placing them carefully in her fingers. Closing her eyes, she draws steadying breaths, attempting to clear her mind and senses before approaching the plants. Stepping forward slowly, she sweeps her lit wand over one large clump, scanning the lemony petals for a certain level of vibrance before kneeling to test their scent. Selectively, she pinches off those that are most potent, placing them in the jar until she has exhausted the supply.

Periodically returning to him, she collects jar after jar of leaves, stems, fronds and petals until the produce of the glade has been picked clean. By the end she is exhausted . . . But her blood still bubbles with anger.

Thrusting the last jar into his hands, she turns to leave.

"Hermione."

His low murmur stops her.

"Please."

She waits a moment before reluctantly turning back.

He hesitates, lips parted. He is clearly having difficulty articulating.

"Please accept my apology."

"Why should I?"

"I . . . I wish to help you."

"Of course you do. That's why you're so bloody offensive." Her voice wavers and she hates herself for showing how upset she is.

"I have no excuse." His eyes flicker to the forest floor. "I intended to express my displeasure at your circumstances but I blamed you instead. It tends to be my standard response. I'm not proud of it."

The furrowed lines of his prominent features are exaggerated in the diffuse wand-light. Despite herself, she finds that she believes him.

"Why would you help me?"

"I believe I owe it to you."

She hisses out her displeasure. "I do not wish you to owe me anything."

"I . . . remember your compassion." His voice catches and she finds her heart beating faster at the admission. "I would like to afford you the same. I believe I can help."

Her eyes search his face for deception, for derision—she finds none.

Shoulders dropping in resignation, she plays her final card—that held closest to her chest. She is afraid but he can't help her unless he knows.

"You must be gentle with me," she whispers. "I can't take any more."

She is shocked to see a glassy sheen mist his impossibly black eyes before he appears to collect himself, delivering a curt nod. "Of course."

Gazing at him intently, desperately hoping that she hasn't made a mistake allowing in someone with the power to take her under completely, she gives a shaky nod in response before inclining her head toward the path. "Perhaps you can lead the way?"

His eyes linger on her a moment more before he steps forward and guides her back through the forest.

* * *

"When were you last assessed?" He appraises her from behind his desk.

"About six months ago."

He notes this on the parchment before him.

"Are you still receiving treatment?"

"No."

His frown deepens. "Why not?"

"Traditional healing potions have no effect. Analgesics deal with the pain but that is a minor component. I've mostly become accustomed to it now anyway."

He stares, appearing to be thinking, before scuffing more notes across the parchment.

"When did you first notice symptoms?"

She considers the question. "It's difficult to say. The changes were so gradual that I didn't particularly notice until it became a problem. I was quite pleased to begin with. The world just seemed to be getting richer."

"When did it start becoming a problem?" He rested a finger against his upper lip.

"I was probably . . . twenty-three."

"And you are now?"

"Twenty-eight."

He scrawls a number in the top corner and circles it.

"Are all senses uniformly affected?"

"They're all hyper-acute but the distribution differs."

"Which means?"

"Some parts of my skin are more sensitive than others. Some smells and flavours have a greater impact."

He nods, adding to his growing list of dot points.

"Do you believe that the difference is related to sensory receptor density?

"Possibly."

"Have you deteriorated since your last assessment?"

"Yes."

He tosses the quill down before steeping his fingers thoughtfully.

"You need to be re-assessed—to establish a new baseline. You will need to make an appointment at St Mungo's. They will have your past records for comparison."

She shakes her head. "I won't go back there . . . not again."

"It's going to be pointless attempting to implement any new therapies unless we have established your current status."

"I'd like you to do it," she murmurs, gazing down at her hands.

"Sorry?"

"Can you please do it?" She looks up at him, the bleak desperation in her voice reminding him of his promise to her . . . be gentle.

He swallows down the gruff sigh that is threatening to emerge. Her brown eyes continue to plead with him and his hand immediately reaches for the bridge of his nose, another automatic barrier-building mechanism he has perfected throughout his life. Instead, he catches himself, allowing his hand to hover awkwardly by his cheek before dropping it back to the desk.

"Right."

Pushing his chair back, he stands, before flicking his hand at the window to close the shutters.

"You will need to remove a few . . . layers."

Rising from her chair, she self-consciously starts to undress. He turns away, opening a drawer to remove a few implements. He spends a considerable amount of time riffling around, unsure of how long she needs.

Finally he turns back.

 _Merlin_ 's—

She is standing in a camisole made from some sort of shimmery material, perhaps silk. Below that is the modest triangle of her knickers. And nothing more. He can also see how desperately thin she is. He finds it somewhat surprising as she carries herself with a strength that belies her evident frailty.

She is alert and watchful. He raises a metal spatula.

"No. Your hand . . . use your hand."

He is tempted to argue but quickly realises the futility. Returning the spatula to his workbench he sighs. "I'd like you to provide a rating—from one as minimal sensation to ten as maximum sensation—of what it feels like when you are touched."

She nods.

"Close your eyes."

He considers this necessary to ensure that her other senses don't influence the results, but he is simultaneously relieved for the break from her gaze.

As he approaches she feels the heat of him. It radiates so powerfully that she can accurately discern his proximity to her and even the contours of his form. She holds her breath, feeling his touch before it even happens. A fingertip alights on her wrist. Gentle. She allows relief to seep into her.

"Eight," she breathes.

Then her forearm.

"Seven."

Shoulder.

"Six."

He slides his finger along the pad of her fingertip and she stiffens.

"Ten."

She can hear him breathing. No longer through his nose. It must be equally awkward for him but she remains immensely grateful that he has agreed.

He proceeds to test her other arm, and then she feels him crouch down and his finger brush against her shin.

"Seven."

The side of her foot.

"Nine."

Her inner thigh.

She whimpers. "Ten."

She squeezes her eyes closed, her skin quivering as he drifts across to her other leg.

"Same," she gasps, brow furrowing as he grazes behind her knee and then slips up to skim along the sensitive curve of her other thigh.

Rising, he stands before her. Their breaths merge. Both damp and laboured.

His fingertips gently touch the pads of her lips and her mouth drops open; wordless noises emerge.

"Ten," he murmurs.

He touches her cheek and she involuntarily tics toward his caress. Her eyelids flutter as he brushes them, she arches away as he trails down the side of her neck.

Finally he ghosts over her nipple and a moan erupts from her throat. Grasping his wrist in her trembling hand, she opens her eyes to find him looking equally flustered.

"Eleven." She squeezes the word out.

He whirls away from her, hands on his hips as his back muscles seethe visibly beneath his coat with each breath.

"That's enough." His voice is guttural, strained. "You need to go."


	7. Come and Go

_What in Merlin's name was she thinking?_ He wasn't a medical professional. He hadn't been trained to deal with people in such a way. And yet she'd disrobed for him as though he was, as though she was simply on one of her many visits to St Mungo's. He'd acquiesced despite his obvious reservations, and he'd performed the assessment as required.

 _But the intensity_.

Her steps falter, stumbling a little as she rushes toward her room, shivery sparks still flickering across her skin in the wake of his touch.

He'd demanded that she leave, tension drawing out the broad lines of his back as she'd quickly dressed and escaped without a word. But she'd seen it in his eyes, in the rare flush of his skin before he'd turned away. He'd been as shocked as she.

This, however, wasn't the first intimate moment they'd shared. Admittedly the others had been with him in various states of semi-consciousness. He'd told her earlier that he'd remembered—clearly he hadn't remembered everything.

She pulls open her door and steps through before flinging it shut, eyelids falling closed, head tipping back as she draws a shuddering breath. Her fingers instantly seek out that nipple—the one that had awakened with barely a whisper of his warm caress over its silken covering. Even now, through the many layers, it strains—hard and hopeful. As though it has a chance. As though it hadn't been abandoned long ago, along with the rest of her womanhood, in favour of a tenuous sanity.

Perhaps her body still remembers the past. After all, he'd had this effect upon her before. Those many years ago as a teenager, alone in her final year after her friends had moved on, she had felt something for him. After hundreds of hours of watching him, worrying about him, fighting for him—she had imagined some sort of connection.

He'd rejected her, screaming out his anguished fury. And for her throbbing humiliation she'd put her feelings down to a sad crush—arising from her desperate need to be needed.

And he had needed her—it was manifest in the desperation of his fierce grip, the constant recitation of his fevered gratitude, the way he'd sought her hands out with his soft lips as she'd stroked the damp hairs from his face.

Whilst he hadn't really been there most of the time, and she'd never really been sure of whether he knew who she was, he'd nevertheless touched her—and made her touch him.

The thought stirs her again and she squeezes her damp thighs together as the ache builds.

But that was the past. Things are very different between them now. He has been downright awful and she resents him for it . . . at least she should. But there are moments—like that in the forest when his guard drops, when the vulnerability returns and she sees him as she did.

And then there was the 'examination'. She wasn't imagining it. It was overwhelmingly intimate—more than it should have been. But perhaps this was her doing—a normal human exchange, unnaturally warped and amplified by her need to be cared for, to receive the tenderness she has craved. Perhaps she is simply cramming her wilting hope into yet another vessel, expecting a positive outcome no matter how unlikely, crafting another misguided attachment.

Indeed, after today, it is more than likely that there will be no more. He'd ordered her out. Again. Perhaps he was already conceding that she was beyond help, that he could do nothing for her, that she was destined to rot here in this cupboard, collapsing upon herself until she imploded into nothingness.

* * *

Severus turns to grasp the firm edge of his desk. He needs the reassurance, the familiarity of the smooth, unyielding grain beneath his fingertips. Hanging his head, drawing similarly from the solid stonework below his feet, he attempts to reconcile the powerful sensations that now surge as deeply and heavily as a heartbeat.

He can't remember the last time this happened. Not, at least, since his violent and deadly encounter with that vile reptile. He might be one of the only people to ever survive its bite but the toll it had taken had been immense.

His free hand slides up to his crotch, grasping the organ that has existed for years in a perpetual state of despondent dormancy. Rock hard—excruciatingly so. Not only that, but it flexes brazenly within his fist, as though taunting him for his assumptions. He continues to roll his fingers down its broad contours, shocked and fascinated at its inexplicable rise from the dead.

 _But is it truly inexplicable?_

Responsive didn't come close to capturing her. Her fine, porcelain skin had quivered, shuddering in anticipation of his touch, prickling and pebbling upon the slightest graze. But it had been her breathy vocalisations, bursting unbidden from her chest that had stirred him most deeply. That and the agonised furrow of her brow which had betrayed her swelling arousal, even beyond the sensory extremes she was clearly enduring. And even now the memory jolts him, forcing more blood into his throbbing member until he has no choice but to release it.

Pushing himself back from the desk, he fumbles with the button, the straining weight of his cock making it difficult to manipulate. With a frustrated growl, he flicks his hand, releasing both the button and fly magically before thrusting down his boxer shorts and finally settling a swathe of warm skin upon his emancipated member.

He shudders at his own touch and is forced to prop one hand on the desk once more to steady himself. It's as though his cardiovascular system has not accounted for this eventuality. As though it is no longer capable of providing sufficient blood to supply both his cock and brain at once. Snorting, he realises he is just admitting that he's a man.

Gently, he drags his fist along his length, a faltering groan escaping him as he is suddenly overwhelmed by the flood of pure pleasure that almost drives him to his knees. He had forgotten this. Or had suppressed it . . . for the sake of accepting a misery that he could not alter.

Applying a little more pressure, he works the base, massaging the seam on the underside as he slides the tight skin back and forth. Closing his eyes, he instantly finds her there—in his mind's eye. His thumb is hovering over her nipple. He's unsure of whether to go there. But its contours suddenly firm beneath the sheer material, even before he's arrived. And he dabs at it, just the briefest meeting. But she writhes as though branded. He is swamped by the heady blend of her full, parted lips, the blush high on her cheekbones and her scent . . . even he can smell it . . . that sweet, musky aroma of female arousal. Again, something he has enjoyed precious little of in too long.

His cock is leaking. He feels the sticky secretions coating his fingers as he rolls over the contours of his firm helmet. He lingers there, rubbing and squeezing rhythmically, and suddenly it becomes her mouth, her lips, dragging at him, drawing him into her. His head pitches forward, his hand suddenly needing to jerk more forcefully, harder and faster.

Sliding his grip around so that his palm is wrapped around the base, his long fingers encircling the top, he begins stroking furiously, his breaths coming in audible wheezes as he feels his balls, after years of hibernation, begin their momentous ascent.

Almost delirious with the pent up need for sexual expression, with the explosive reignition of his power as a man, he releases a guttural roar as, after a final flurry of tugs, his balls erupt, shuddering and convulsing as they eject, in violent bursts, years of viscous release—a torrent escaping in dramatic surges across his desk. His hips buck as his fist continues to jerk, forcing out further creamy spurts until he's completely drained, his knuckles draped in thick strings of warm seed.

Gasping, he gazes in wonder at the fruits of his labour. The entire desk is splattered with his glistening signature, one that he'd given up on ever producing again. It might be a fucking mess, but he couldn't be more relieved.

Except that he must now face the fact that he's been furiously flogging himself over a young woman's debilitating neurological condition. And it's not just any woman, but the one he'd spurned all those years ago . . . and done his best to make feel as unwelcome as possible since her arrival.

Grasping the desk with both hands, he props himself on outstretched arms, chin sinking toward his chest as he tries to regulate his breathing.

He really does want to help her. And whilst recent events might not reflect that, they have afforded him a certain clarity of thought. He has an idea.

* * *

Toiletries bag in hand, she quietly opens the door and nudges her head out. All clear. Noiselessly securing the latch, she begins her slippered creep up the corridor. She can barely hear herself so there is absolutely no chance that he can—

"Miss Granger?"

Spinning around, she falls against the wall with a wince. He is standing in his doorway, dark and composed, hand grasping the door handle.

"Oh, Professor . . . Did you need to use the toilet again? I can wait." She presses her palms against the cold stone as he appraises her with his increasingly disconcerting gaze.

"No. My plumbing has been fixed."

She nods slowly but notices his eyes flicker downward momentarily before he turns his head away. If she didn't know better, she'd interpret it as . . . embarrassment.

But then she catches it. A scent . . . ever so faint. He'd obviously Scourgified, and perhaps even washed, but it was definitely there. He'd ejaculated . . . recently. Is that what he'd meant by his plumbing being—

"You won't be joining us for dinner?" he inquires, pulling the door closed.

"No . . . I can't." She falters, still unsure of what to make of her discovery.

"No doubt." He nods. "It seems that we have our work cut out for us, doesn't it?"

"Does it?"

He frowns. "I would say so. Your condition is extreme. The solution is clearly elusive or you would have discovered something before now. And it's possible that any therapy will need to be of an equivalent intensity or duration to combat the refractory nature of your affliction."

The relief that floods her makes her feel distinctly teary. So he hadn't given up.

"Where do we start?" she rasps.

"I have a few . . . ideas."

She looks up as he steps forward, having to crane her neck to keep focused on his face. The familiar odour of male sex overwhelms her and she finds her body responding . . . again. Dropping her eyes, she admonishes herself, wishing she had just a modicum of control over it.

"Such as?" she whispers.

"Calcium."

 _Calcium?_ But he leaves the word hanging, striding away quickly before dissolving into the darkness.


	8. His and Hers

A/N: Hey guys, just wanted to let you know that DIFTO was runner up in the 'Best Hermione Characterisation' section of the Haven Awards. This is the first award any of my stories has received so I'm extremely grateful to those of you who were kind enough to take the time to vote. DSxx

* * *

"Have you tried a topical anaesthetic before?" He reaches to the top shelf of the cupboard and shuffles aside some jars.

"Yes."

"And?" He turns his head, hand hovering over a jar.

"And I felt anaesthetised," she responds.

"But was it an improvement?"

"Feeling nothing at all?"

The corner of his mouth quirks down, suggesting irritation but also acceptance of her position. "I expected as much."

Withdrawing his hand and flicking the door closed with an air of disdain, he returns to his desk. From a small bookcase nearby he selects two texts, placing each slowly and deliberately in front of her before crossing his arms expectantly.

She leans forward.

"'The Biology of Magical Maladies' and 'Cursed Physiology'," she reads aloud. "So you think this is a curse?"

"Do you?"

She sighs before leaning back and trailing a weary hand over her face. "Sometimes."

"But you also think that there may be a purely biological component?"

She lets her hand fall away. "Yes."

"So do I."

She is strangely comforted by the gravity of his rich, deep tone. He is taking this seriously. Perhaps he even . . . cares.

"Which is why I prepared this."

Slipping his long fingers into his pocket, he withdraws a small vial and hands it to her. She tilts the clear solution, making it twinkle amber in the low torchlight. She hasn't a clue what it is.

"As you may be aware, low blood calcium can change the firing patterns of nerves, making them hyper-excitable. Your blood calcium would have been investigated numerous times in the past and you would know if a deficit was detected. However, I'm not convinced that a remedy could not be applied in topical form to modulate receptor output. This particular solution also has a generalised curse remedy associated with it. I thought it might be a good starting point."

Her eyes flicker to his. "So I simply apply this to my skin?"

"Yes."

"Can I try it now?"

He notes the desperation in her brown eyes.

"This may have no effect whatsoever. You do understand?"

She nods quickly but still that spark of hope is there.

"Perhaps try a location that is not so . . . sensitive. The back of your hand?" he suggests, moving forward to watch.

Pulling out the dropper, she applies a little of the oily liquid to the back of one hand and lifts her other hand to rub it in.

"Stop," he interrupts abruptly. "You'll get it on your fingers."

Suddenly he is kneeling beside her. He takes her hand between his, gently massaging the solution into her translucent skin. Her hand is so small that the three pads of his fingers practically cover the entire surface. Her fingertips curl against the palm of his supporting hand. They flex rhythmically, applying a brief but powerful jolt to his insides each time they whisper against him.

It's happening again . . . to her also. Her breathing has changed. She sighs now upon each exhalation. Although he can't feel the warmth of her breath, he prickles as though it is ruffling directly into his ear. He knows without looking that her jaw has dropped, lips forced apart as she strives to cope with the deficit. In his mind's eye, each delicate pad flutters upon inhalation, as it had when he'd examined her, rapidly firming and ripening with her arousal. His eyes flicker sideways—only as far as her chest. Her breasts rise and fall with an unnatural encumbrance, an audible hitch catching him as his hand slides over hers for a final time, trailing down her fingers before it recedes.

He rises without looking at her. Two long strides and he is behind his desk, sitting abruptly and snatching up his quill.

"Anything?" he inquires, fixing his face with an impenetrable frown.

It's all there—just as he'd imagined. She looks as though she's been fucked, and he'd only just touched her . . . barely.

He eases his legs apart to relieve his own encumbrance, consolidating his frown in case she suspects that he is interested in anything other than her condition.

"It's . . . it's difficult to tell," she responds breathlessly, avoiding his gaze.

Absently she trails a finger over the back of her hand.

"I don't . . ." She falters before looking up at him. "I haven't returned to . . . baseline, so it's difficult to say."

That's an understatement. She is still projecting so far out of her skin, it's palpable.

He sighs and drops his quill, unable to take much more of her apologetic arousal . . . her unwittingly intrusive presence. He drags a hand over his stubbling chin.

"Sleep on it," he mutters between splayed fingers.

She takes that to mean 'leave.'

"Can I borrow one of these, please?"

"Of course."

Selecting the book closest to her, she nods gratefully. "I really do appreciate your efforts, Professor."

He simply nods in response, fingers still thoughtfully framing his lips.

"And I do understand how frustrating this must be for you."

He suppresses the need to close his eyes.

 _Does she have to be so piercingly earnest? So honest? So genuinely fucking grateful?_

Her life is shit—he's just some prick attempting to feel a little less guilty about it. And she happens to be giving him a hell of a lot more than he's giving her.

Upon his silence, she leaves. Those brown eyes slide away, full of roiling deliberation—thinking too much . . . as usual. The last he sees of her is that small, glistening hand gently closing the door.

He wrenches his fly open and tugs his cock free from his boxers. Sighing, he grasps himself—allowing the elation of wielding his, now vibrant, member to seep in. He finally admits that he has been concerned . . . preparing himself for the possibility that the previous day's events were no more than a brief glitch, a biological fluke set to torture him for years to come.

The hard heat throbbing in his hand tells him otherwise. He strokes himself, drawing a growl from somewhere unexpectedly primal—a rare conciliation, an admission of desires so fundamental that they'd barely been acknowledged. Of course he will indulge in another wank—he'd revel in it. But what he really wants, and what his body clearly craves—his hips starting to rock of their own accord—is a fuck.

The visceral memories of past encounters captures him as he tightens his grip on his shaft. There were many—so many, in fact, that few stand out as prominent, most melding together in a seething carnal collage of pumping, groaning bodies. He'd increasingly indulged as the pressure of Voldemort's commands and Dumbledore's 'vehement suggestions' had mounted. Sometimes he'd sought satisfaction within Voldemort's ranks but he preferred it to be elsewhere—often anonymous, just the raw physicality of indulging in the body of another—without attachment. Indeed, he'd not had the capacity, or the desire, at that time to entertain anything more.

 _But now?_ The sad truth was that he probably did have the capacity . . . and possibly even the desire. But until yesterday he'd been incapable of acting upon either. _After all, who would want a man who could no longer perform as such?_

And then there was the more complex problem of who would want a man who could perform, but was such a compulsively surly bastard that he inevitably pushed them away, isolating himself in the process. _And what if that person was incapable of engaging, themselves?_

Standing, he makes his way around to the other side of the desk, never faltering in his rhythmic tugging. Stepping up to the desk, he rests the fist gripping his cock on the wooden edge and holds it there as he begins pumping into it. He imagines someone, a certain person, bent over his desk, thrusting into her from behind. Closing his eyes, he places his other palm against the surface of the desk—the small of her back—as he snaps his hips forward, plunging into her over and over again.

Even though his calloused palm is a poor substitute for the hot, slick embrace of a willing pussy, it doesn't take long for him to feel the gathering promise of another colossal release. His desperate thrusts speed up, his pubic bone slamming into his fist as he reaches down with his other hand to cup his balls. He squeezes them as the pressure builds.

He is vocalising now, groaning at the ceiling as his eyelids sink in ecstasy. He grunts as his straining balls twitch in his fingers and suddenly he is discharging again, his cock shooting come in impressive arcs across the desk, each surging further with the momentum of his thrusts. It is difficult to believe he'd only ejaculated the day before as his cock seems determined to demonstrate its newfound virility by spurting with healthy exuberance, over and over until his desk is similarly defaced. He groans with relief as the last thick drops slide over his knuckles, depositing directly in the centre of the—

"Professor, sorry to interrupt you again but I . . ."

Jerking around, he sees her over his shoulder, rapidly approaching, nose buried in the book. He turns his body away, fumbling with his, still tumescent, cock in an effort to shove it back in his pants.

"I really can't find what I am looking for in this one and I thought perhaps the other one . . ."

She stops talking.

He doesn't turn.

"Oh, I'm so sorry."

His shoulders drop in mortification.

"I didn't realise I'd spilt some potion on this book. I'll just wipe it off."

He clutches his forehead with one large hand.

Silence.

More silence.

"Professor?"

He can't move.

"This isn't potion is it?"

 _For fuck's sake_.

"Professor?"

 _Obliviation. That's the only solution_.

Spinning around, he raises his hand to her.

"This works."

He stops. "What?"

"This." She dips a finger into the creamy smear in the centre of the book and rubs it between her fingers. "I can feel it already. The sensation is diminished. It's . . . incredible. Like a small window of quiet . . . amongst the roar."

Dipping into it again, she rubs the fluid on the back of her other hand, nodding slowly as a grin captures her lips, spreading until her face lights up in a manner he hasn't observed since her arrival.

"Where's the rest of it?"

He falters, still on the verge of Obliviating her.

"Please Professor, is there more?"

Turning back to the desk she leans forward for a closer look.

"Yesss," she hisses.

Before he can do anything, she is scooping his seed up with her fingers and rubbing it over her hands and wrists. She moves hungrily around the desk, tilting her head to catch the tell-tale glisten before descending upon each careless splatter as though it is liquid gold. When she begins happily rubbing it on her cheeks, his mouth drops open. Nothing more than raspy air wheezes out.

Finally she stops her hunt-and-gather expedition across the desk, scanning the floor and nearby surfaces for precious drops.

When she realises, with obvious disappointment, that the supply has been exhausted, she turns to him.

"Could you possibly . . . make me some more?"

He blinks, lips hovering open before pressing closed again.

"Please?"

"I . . ." Those brown eyes again, pleading, appeasing . . . _fuck_. "I'll see what I can do."


	9. Up and Down

This time she turns right. Exiting his door for the second time, she makes straight for the stairs, his damp book clutched to her chest. She takes the flight two at a time, more quickly than she should, but the swell of pure elation that surges within her means she has little choice. Striding quickly along the dark, empty corridors, she is somewhat disappointed to encounter no one. Of course she could never share what has just transpired. But she feels so monumentally different, she wonders if it would be noticed.

She peers at her hands—the tight flexion of knuckles as she grasps the book. Bizarrely, there is no pain, no abnormal sensation, no tingling or prickling or throbbing or burning, just the smooth seams of the old leather cover beneath her fingertips. It is . . . inconceivable.

She has tried literally thousands of potential remedies, obsessively documenting their effects, paying through the nose for bizarre concoctions, mixing and trialling her own, spending sleepless nights in her kitchen cooking up batch after batch of hope . . . only to be devastated time and again.

She'd attempted to convince herself on so many occasions that she could feel something—some tiny alteration, some infinitesimally small shift. But they had amounted to nothing more than erroneous figments, manifestations of her, increasingly frantic, desperation to be cured.

And then this.

Semen.

The smell is overpowering but she's unwilling to wash it off. Not yet.

It makes little sense. In fact it makes no sense. And yet the effects are irrefutable.

It was immediate—an instant relief, both stark and soothing. As though she was dipping her fingers through time, back to her old self, back all those years to when she could afford a robust engagement with the world, to explore it without repercussions, without fearing its bitter retaliation.

As more and more of her skin had been covered, she'd felt as though she was progressively grafting herself back onto this foreign body that she had come to occupy. The application to her face had been the most dramatic of all—that was the root of her expression, her communication, her joy. And she hadn't stopped smiling since she'd done it.

He'd been shocked. Actually, that was an understatement. She'd never seen him more uncomfortable. And of course she understood why.

He'd been wanking. Again. And she'd caught him . . . And smeared his semen all over herself.

 _But who wouldn't?_

 _Who wouldn't, after years of misery, grab a lifeline like that with both hands?_ Anyone would. It didn't matter what it was or whose it was, she would do the same again. And she dearly hoped that there would be further opportunities for relief in the future—the rest of her body was now aching covetously for it.

He hadn't been overjoyed at her request for more. In fact, he'd looked very much like he was about to run away the entire time. Still, if he masturbated as regularly as he appeared to, there should be a plentiful supply.

And whilst there may have been a certain etiquette around requesting semen that she had neglected to follow, she hoped that he understood how extraordinary that moment had been for her, and how genuinely grateful she was to him. _Perhaps she hadn't communicated it well enough?_

Gasping as she climbs the final flight of stairs, she resolves that she will come up with a suitable way to thank him for agreeing to provide her with something as life-enhancing as this was already promising to be.

Tentatively, she steps out into the crisp air of the Astronomy tower.

Despite the throbbing in her feet, and the protests of her lips and ears—those parts not yet blessed with a layer of Snape's salve—she beams into an impossibly clear night sky, gazing up at the dramatic swathe of stars, scattered like a precious vein of diamonds above her head.

This was her place of rejuvenation. She had sought the solace of its lofty isolation often in her final year—to read, to contemplate, and to gain perspective on her small place in a vast and magnificent universe.

She had avoided it since returning. And although things were still far from perfect, she could feel herself reinvigorating once again, the cool railing firm and familiar beneath her restored hands, her fingers seeking out and tracing the letters of the smooth plaque—that placed here upon Dumbledore's death.

She had lost both he as a father-figure and her own father in quick succession. Although her father was still very much alive, she was no longer able to converse with him, to seek his considered advice, to admire his insight and wisdom. In some ways, when she had removed herself from her parents' lives, and herself from her their photographs, she sometimes felt she had set in train a series of events that would eventually remove her from existence altogether . . . and without her history, without her involvement in the lives of friends or family, it would seem that when she finally came to wither away, she had never lived at all.

The smile on her face finally melts away.

Early on. When she'd still had relationships, she'd wondered how she could ever contemplate a wedding day without her parents, without her father's strong arm to support her down the aisle. But when this had happened, this invasion of her body—when she'd had to accept that such an occasion would never be, there had been some sense of relief—one sadness that she had been able to relinquish.

 _And now?_ She tips her head back to face the stars, her face unnaturally tranquil despite the exposure. Perhaps this is the beginning of a re-emergence . . . of her materialising, conjuring some sort of worthy existence from the ashes.

She draws a breath through icy lips, the contrast extreme against those parts of her face that are stiffening slightly with his secretions but otherwise remain wonderfully untroubled. Her main concern now is her expectations. She knows that hope of this kind—of this magnitude—is extremely unwise. Past devastation had almost done her in—she'd barely had the strength to resurface. But she just can't seem to quell it . . . to extinguish that small flicker of hope that has flared again inside her.

Unfortunately, however, it now lies in the hands of another. Someone whom she can't even begin to fathom.

* * *

It lies in his hands. Like a dead Flobberworm.

Reclining against the bedhead, he flicks it again with his fingers, letting it flop onto his abdomen and roll back down to rest against his equally uninspiring balls.

It's not the fact that an hour of tugging and stroking and squeezing has done absolutely nothing to pique its interest, but the distinct petulance with which it regards him, as though he has deliberately removed it's only source of interest and still expected him to play, concerns and bewilders him.

 _Why her? And why now?_

Obviously she wasn't unattractive. But neither was she particularly healthy. She was ill . . . and it was evident. Despite this, however, even his cock was aware that something inexplicable occurred between them when they touched—in fact, a reasonably close proximity seemed to be sufficient.

Admittedly he had thought about her on and off over the years—wondering at her motivation to spend so many months with him at his worst. He hadn't trusted that she could have been there to simply help. But, then again, he'd never fully given his trust to anyone.

She was clearly aroused by him. But she also harboured a condition that caused her to hyper-react to the vaguest stimuli . . . so perhaps that shouldn't be considered an accurate gauge of her interest.

Indeed, her only real interest seemed to be in finding a cure for her condition. And he'd been foolish enough to offer his help—the pathetic draw of heroism, of being the hope for yet another hopeless cause.

And then this.

He flicks his cock again, watching it slither down despondently into the crease of his inner thigh.

This study in flaccidity was apparently the 'cure.'

He snorts with disdain. It had been utterly useless for years. He'd even given up on hating himself for it. _And now?_ Now that it had been inspired to resurface, promising so much, driving her to smear the fruits of its brief labour over her face no less, conjuring that rare smile—a glow of pure happiness—it was going to pull its head back in and fuck them both up.

He flicks the sheet over himself and, with a loud sigh, tunnels a hand into his hair, grasping the roots tightly in agitation.

He hadn't promised her anything. He doesn't owe her anything. He is not responsible for her. He can simply tell her 'no' . . . that it is completely inappropriate—which it is. She wants his come, for fuck's sake!

She would just have to learn to live with disappointment. _Fuck . . . hadn't he spent his life having to endure the same?_

* * *

"Good morning, Professor."

 _Yes. Absolutely fucking spiffing._ He remains facing his door, wondering if he can get away with pretending he hasn't heard her.

"I hope you slept well."

 _Translation: I hope you made that come I asked for . . . and perhaps managed a bit of sleep too._

He turns away from her and takes a couple of strides before she catches up to him, touching his arm.

"Look!"

He looks.

She has her sleeves rolled up to expose her forearms; her hands are glove-free. She is still beaming.

He deflates a little further.

"It's still working!"

 _Joy beyond measure_. He manages to raise an eyebrow in barely restrained exuberance.

"Normally this is the hardest thing to do," she continues excitedly. "But look . . ."

She reaches forward and grasps his hand in both of hers, sliding her fingers up under his tightly buttoned sleeve. He frowns. _Doesn't she realise it's buttoned for a reason—to keep people out?_

"See, I can touch you without . . . without flinching . . . it just feels . . . normal."

He scans her face. She looks different. _Healthier?_ She certainly seems happier. And her fingers continue to trace the contours of his hand, trekking over his knuckles, skimming lightly over his palm, brushing his fingertips. And then he feels it. He stiffens . . . everywhere.

She pulls away, sensing the change in his demeanour.

"There is something I need to attend to," he mutters.

"Of course, I'm sorry to have kept you."

She steps aside to allow him to proceed, but instead he turns on his heel and returns the two steps to his door, unlocking it with a brisk wave before stepping through and slamming it shut.

This time she flinches.


	10. Old and New

"Well, well, it seems that the mustiness and gloom of the dungeons are doing you wonders!" Professor Sprout beams at her from over her teacup.

Hermione smiles shyly in return before sipping her own. _So it is noticeable_.

She'd also ditched the dark glasses and although she knew she was squinting terribly, it seemed a shame to not embrace the transition fully. _Transition?_ That was probably an overstatement. She was feeling better . . . that was as far as it went. And there was always the possibility that it would go no further. In fact, she could easily regress. Certainly Snape's behaviour earlier didn't fill her with any confidence about the promise of more relief. In fact—

"Severus!" Professor Sprout's eyebrows spring up in surprise as Hermione turns to see him approaching, tea cup and saucer balanced in one hand.

Hermione had never seen him approach or converse with anyone in the staff room to date, Pomona's reaction verifying how out of character it was.

"Pomona." Severus nods stiffly. "Miss Granger." His black eyes slide to hers, the slight flexion of one eyebrow sufficient to indicate that it is she whom he intends to target.

Pomona instantly notices. Hermione realises with surprise that the other staff have also been conditioned. It is as though, like her, every nuance of Snape's stern features, his cautionary expressions, his deft movements and, of course, his loaded phrasing have been encoded in their brains—solely for the purpose of self-preservation. They had all learned to read him . . . and to react . . . quickly.

"Oh is that the time? I must be off," Pomona blusters, rattling her cup in her saucer as she nods politely and bustles away.

Snape's eyes follow the Professor's retreating form before he dips into his pocket, retrieving a small opaque jar and handing it to Hermione.

"I trust this will suffice." His voice is low and emotionless.

She glances at him but his expression is similarly unreadable.

"Can I just say, Professor, that I—"

"No."

 _That was rather emphatic_.

She swallows her effusion, tempering it down to a murmured, "Thank you."

He nods before turning away sharply, no doubt preparing to escape.

"Severus?" The soft brogue sounds behind them.

Hermione spins around.

"Hermione." Professor McGonagall's clear green gaze moves between the two of them, finally settling upon the jar in Hermione's hand. "This looks promising." Her withered lips cinch into a smile. "Has our esteemed potions master managed to brew you up something already?"

Hermione stares back, dumbfounded.

Minerva's gaze returns to Severus.

"It's more of a . . . supplement," he mutters.

"Regardless," Minerva inclines her head appreciatively, "I'm sure that Hermione is grateful for any assistance that we can provide."

She turns her attention to Hermione, raising an eyebrow.

"Oh yes . . . it's really . . . good," Hermione states lamely.

An awkward silences ensues as everyone focuses on the jar in Hermione's white-knuckled grip.

"Well." Minerva folds her hands together. "You're both clearly very busy. Please don't let me keep you."

Severus dips his nose almost imperceptibly before sweeping past her and out the door.

As Hermione makes to leave, Minerva touches her lightly on the arm. "Is there anything that you wish to discuss?"

Hermione takes in the concerned frown creasing the older woman's brow and gives a small smile in response. "Thank you . . . but I'm doing well. I'm actually feeling rather . . . optimistic."

* * *

"I think it needs to be fresh."

"What?" he growls groggily through the gap in the door. All she can see is his nose overhung by eyebrows, fused in intense disapproval.

"It . . . it didn't work very well. I think it might need to be applied as soon as it's . . ." She pulls her dressing gown around her shoulders. "As soon as it's . . . made."

"It's five o'clock in the morning, for Merlin's sake," he grinds darkly through the gap. "Couldn't this have waited?"

"I know . . . I'm sorry." She glances helplessly up and down the corridor as though hoping for support to arrive. "It's just that I couldn't sleep."

"So you decided to see it that no one else could either?" he snaps.

"No . . . I just . . . I thought if you woke up and . . . and it was . . . you know . . . if you were in the mood . . . that you didn't just . . . I just didn't want it to be . . . wasted."

"And what did you intend for me to do with 'it' instead?" She can hear the disdain in his voice.

"Well . . ." She hadn't really thought that part through particularly well. "I thought perhaps you could . . . come and see me."

"To do what?"

"To . . . give it to me . . . from the . . . source."

"The source?"

"Yes . . . from your—"

"No."

The door slams.

She stares at it.

And knocks again.

Moments later it flings open.

"Go away."

"I'll help."

"What?"

"I'll help. I'll do all the work. You can just . . . sit . . . or stand . . . or read or . . ."

"Read?" He stares at her incredulously.

"Well . . . maybe not read but I'll try not to disturb you." She looks pleadingly up at him. "—any more than necessary."

He folds his arms, shaking his head in disbelief.

"Please, Professor," she rasps, only just circumventing the lump in her throat, feeling ridiculous but realising what a toll the long hours of sleeplessness and despair had taken. "I'll find a way to make it up to you . . . I promise."

He continues to glare at her for an excruciatingly long period, sucking the confidence from her like a Dementor until she finally lowers her eyes, turning to leave.

"Come back in an hour."

* * *

She stands in his lounge room, trying not to stare at the array of stylish and fascinating objects spotted around his tables, shelves and mantelpiece—to say nothing for the vast collection of books taunting her from across the room.

"Where shall we—?"

"Here will suffice," he interrupts, nodding at a couch beside the fireplace.

Hermione notes that his arms have remained crossed from the moment she entered . . . and look set to remain that way throughout.

He sits abruptly, legs resting slightly apart, and she realises then that she is going to have to kneel. It is going to hurt. Unless she . . .

"Do you mind if I sit beside you?"

He moves his head slightly to the right. She interprets the indication as a negative.

Taking a seat beside him, she realises how monumentally difficult the task is going to be. Notwithstanding the confusing gale of emotions that is already whipping around inside her—just the physical act, with someone as closed off as he, was going to be a battle. And then there is the fact that he happens to be Severus Snape, a universally feared and inherently formidable character whom she knows to be otherwise but so rarely shows it that she almost doesn't trust herself to believe.

But when she looks into his eyes, she doesn't see the expected conceit or derision. She sees unease, a simmering apprehension. He is as unsure as she. And yet he let her in. And he is here. That must count for something.

She wants to say something comforting, or diverting, or even vaguely useful but there are literally no words so she simply turns her body toward him, shuffles closer and reaches for his fly.

It seems a little direct, but touching him on the thigh or the chest, or anywhere else, seems infinitely more inappropriate—as though she is trying to seduce him or something. Which she isn't . . . _is she?_

His eyes track her movements so closely that she can feel the weight of them dragging on her. The tension in his body winds until his dark angular frame seems so imposing, his countenance so prohibitive, his accoutrements so bloody impenetrable—as for some reason he'd seen fit to fully dress before allowing her inside—that her hands halt in their advance, hovering over his crotch, unable to proceed.

She bites her lip.

"Wha-t?" He breaks the word into two sharp syllables that shatter the last of her resolve.

"Can you please . . . remove it?"

His lips clamp shut.

"Your . . ." Hermione indicates with her head.

"I did happen to decipher your request," he snaps, flicking his fingers at his fly to release it before sliding a hand inside. "I do hope you know what you're doing."

She gives a shaky nod.

She hasn't a clue what she's doing.

Of course she knows how to do it. She's touched enough penises in the past. But to be trying to extract someone's semen . . . for medicinal purposes . . . that did happen to be a first.

Then he pulls it out.

And the memories flood back.

It really is quite . . . exceptional.

His nose lifts slightly as he drapes it casually across the dark fabric of his trousers. Even flaccid, its solid intrusion jabs at her insides. But she can't afford to lose focus—to allow her body's confusion to distract her. She is there for a reason. And he is allowing her there . . . for his own reasons. And she must remind herself that this is the only solution . . . that it works . . . or at least has worked . . . so . . . bloody . . . well. In fact, it's the only reason she can now reach out and . . .

His abdomen immediately convulses, the breath spilling between his parted lips as she lightly brushes the surface, grazes the impossible softness with her fingertips. Her senses may be dampened but their acuity is still extraordinary. She already feels his essence pulsing beneath the gossamer surface, the microscopic chambers flooding as she encroaches.

The moan that escapes him as she dips her fingers forward, curling them around his blooming shaft, is so familiar that it robs her of her breath. She hadn't expected this. Not to this extent. Not of this intensity . . . after so long.

Grasping him more fully, she strokes, his eyelids fluttering as his fingers flex into the arm of the couch.

A few steady jerks and some hot, heavy breathing from them both and he is at full mast . . . even more impressive.

He melts back into the couch, allowing her to lean in closer. But she makes the mistake of looking at him—checking his eyes . . . past habit. And she is caught there, again, in that deep, tarry black. She doesn't recall such clarity—not under these circumstances. It was always intense, but tempered by a blurry distance.

Not this time. This time she is penetrated. Impaled. And the weight of his expression, the desire in his sinking lids, the dip of his covetous brow, and those lips, swollen and beckoning and—

His hand is on hers, encapsulating it, allowing her to finally tear her eyes away. He sets her a frenetic pace, a rapid blur of jerks just below the rosy bulb of his head as his moans deepen and his head tips back, throat working fiercely with each vocalisation.

He's close. She leans over, face hovering above the flurry of stroking hands. She watches the tip disappear and re-emerge at a furious tempo, hoping she can time it right. And just as he releases a final cresting groan, she descends, opening her mouth over him and feeling the first shots of come enter her. She takes everything, riding each jerky shudder of his hips and squeezing him over and over to milk the last drops into her mouth.

When she sits back up, he is watching her, lips parted in shock. She should have warned him . . . too late. Looking away, she dips two fingers into her mouth, then withdraws slowly, rubbing the creamy fluid over her lips as she goes. Returning to her mouth she takes another large drop on her index finger and places it in the corner of one eye, inhaling sharply as she blinks through the pain. She repeats the process with her other eye before swallowing the mouthful and finally burying her face in her hands.

Silence.

Silence.

A rapid inhalation.

Then she blooms. Before his eyes she emerges, her fingers peeling away tentatively like petals into a new Spring.

Her smile is radiant, transitioning into bewilderment and then ecstasy as she runs her fingertips over her lips.

"Gods." She releases a breathy sob. "I'm back."

Her swimming eyes fix upon him and he wonders if she expects something more but, before he can react, she lunges forward, capturing his lips in her own and sucking them with a moan so visceral that it prickles his scalp. Hungrily she presses into him, her tongue driving forcefully into his mouth. He moves to touch her but she catches him with both hands. Finally she releases him. All of him. And stands.

"I just needed to ensure it had worked," she explains breathlessly.

"And?"

"I'll be back."


	11. Give and Take

Severus stares into the distance, fingertips absent-mindedly grazing his lips.

"Professor Snape?"

He blinks back to the moment. "Sorry?"

The student stares at him in shock, ladle wilting in her hand.

"What do you want?" he snaps, fixing his face with his trademark disapproving frown.

The student relaxes, clearly uncomfortable with catching him day-dreaming and relieved to be back on the receiving end of his, more familiar, contempt.

"We . . . we've finished . . . do we have permission to leave?"

Severus' eyes scan the wary faces seated behind their cauldrons. They must have been waiting for a while . . . watching him.

"Go." He tosses a dismissive wave in their direction and they quickly scatter.

He sighs as the door closes, drawing one long finger thoughtfully down his nose.

He is unused to this. Indecision. Uncertainty. Confusion. He rarely entertains such states. He finds them pointless. And yet he sees no obvious way forward from his current predicament. There is no concrete way to characterise this situation . . . this . . . dynamic. And so the appropriate behaviours elude him.

She would be back . . . for more. _But more of what?_

 _More medicinal semen?_ He simply the supplier. The 'source.'

 _More snogging?_ He the test subject—the verification of efficacy.

 _Or was it something else?_ Indefinable. But undeniably there. The inky dregs of the past still lingering . . . staining them both?

 _Or could this be something new?_ A manifestation of their therapeutic exchange. A brief reciprocal dependence, biologically symbiotic but no deeper than that . . . an arrangement that would see them mutually benefit, simultaneously rehabilitating in order to move on with their lives?

He taps a finger against his bottom lip. No explanation seems satisfactory. None completely resonates with the roiling tension that vacillates between his chest and his groin. He is certainly not one to dwell on 'feelings' but if he were forced to explain them, he might surmise that he . . . liked her.

But it is complicated. And she has a similar array of dilemmas to negotiate.

 _Will she come to the same conclusion? And, if not, is he willing to continue as the 'provider,' to administer a 'hit' whenever she needs it?_

He leans back in his seat, relaxing his legs apart. It would be disingenuous to feel used. After all, the moment that he realised he was coming in her mouth had been infused with such a gloriously raw sense of potency, something that he had given up on ever experiencing again, that he had almost wept. He felt alive. And perhaps that should be enough.

* * *

"Professor Granger, are you pregnant?"

"I . . . beg your pardon?"

The girl, whom Hermione now knows to be Sophia Langford, studies her closely.

"My mother told me that when women are pregnant, they 'glow.' I know that's not particularly scientific. I imagine it's related to hormone levels or something. But when I saw you, it's immediately what came to mind. Are you sure?"

The girl's direct manner is still disconcertingly familiar, and the topic of conversation disconcerting enough in its own right, that Hermione is glad that she decided to spring this little gem upon her when the rest of the class had left.

"I'm quite sure." Hermione nods briefly, standing to collect the Muggle calculators and stopwatches that they had been using for the day's activities.

"Oh, that's good."

Hermione stops to regard her. "Why?"

"Because I don't want you to leave. None of us do. We all love you." The girl's blue eyes are infused with such deep honesty that Hermione finds herself flooding with a pervasive lightness that she gradually recognises as a rare moment of genuine happiness—not the sort of fleeting surge that she desperately clutches at before it disappears, but one that she allows simply to be . . . trusting that it will, when the time is right, be substantial enough to resurface.

"Have you found a cure then . . . for your hyperaesthesia?" the girl continues.

Quickly blinking away the mist, Hermione continues to pack, unsure of how to respond.

"Perhaps."

"That's even better," Sophia gushes excitedly. "There's something I want to show you—outside. I know you don't go out very often but when you're better will you let me show you?"

Hermione's face melts into a smile. "I would love that."

* * *

"Have you eaten, Professor?"

He halts before entering his door. She materialises in the corridor ahead. _Was she waiting for him?_

"Not yet."

"Perhaps you will accompany me?" She takes a few tentative steps toward him. ". . . For a meal?"

His gaze slides down her. She appears to be wearing a dress . . . and a long thick shawl, her hair pinned up, a few loose curls drifting down her neck.

He pauses.

Then raises his eyebrows toward the door. "Give me a moment."

She nods, a relieved smile flickering across her lips.

His rapid return brings further relief. But when he offers her his arm, her heart lurches and stutters as though it has lost condition with prolonged disuse.

The warm strength of his forearm beneath her fingers turns out to be more comforting than she could have imagined and as he measures his gait to accommodate hers, she is suddenly swamped with gratitude for her favourite insufferable know-it-all. Without the infusion of confidence and joy that she had provided, Hermione would never have had the courage to go there—to invite him to share this moment . . . fraught but acutely hope-filled despite the weighty expectation of so many years.

* * *

Stepping from the apparition point, Hermione inhales deeply. Although there has been no direct contact between her olfactory sense and his essence, she is quite positive that she can detect an improvement in that domain—a greater capacity to filter, to attend to the scents that are pleasant over those that are not. And that couldn't be more of a blessing in this location.

The pier stretches before them. In the deepening dusk, the planks appear to melt into the inky darkness of the surrounding water, rendering the tiny restaurant at the end no more than a silhouette, embellished in parts by a flotilla of hanging ochre lanterns. Combined with the lilting strains of a distant violin, hovering like an invisible presence over the water, the entire visage is so enticing that Hermione feels herself being bodily drawn, as it had always done, like an alluring auburn flame to an enraptured moth.

Her hand is still curled around his arm but she senses in his gradual slowing, a similar reverence. She wonders if it is cautionary, an innate wariness. She dearly hopes not—but rather that he is simply indulging in the secluded beauty of their surroundings or perhaps, like she, remembering the magical ambiance of a meal by the water, having missed it for so long. The moment passes unspoken. She doesn't know him well enough to inquire . . . perhaps she never will.

The gentle lap of water plays against the reedy violin as they approach, footsteps drawing out a rhythmic accompaniment from the pier's old planks. Frothy gales of laughter spill out from a table under one of the lanterns. Hermione is drawn to the faces of the happy strangers, surprised that it is no longer with a pang of longing, but with a sense of communion, that she may now be included in such revelry.

Only then does she realise how tightly she is squeezing his arm. She wants this so much. To be part of the world again. And while this was supposed to be her 'thank you' to him—a tiny token of her gratitude, she wonders now if she is simply dragging him along to assuage her insecurities. Her eyes venture to his face, a striking blend of shadow and burnished bronze from the lanterns. It is difficult to tell but he doesn't appear uncomfortable . . . and she hadn't exactly forced him.

"Have you been here before?" she ventures, loosening her grip slightly.

"No . . . I would remember."

Her mouth hitches momentarily. _He does like it_. She allows the hope to seep back in. Perhaps this is going to work out after all.

The door to the restaurant suddenly swings open and a waiter appears with a bottle of wine and two glasses in one hand and a basket of bread in the other.

"Hermione?"

"Jacob! How are you?"

An easy smile lights up his handsome face.

"How am I? We haven't seen you in years. Vincent thought you must have found a new favourite."

"Never," Hermione assures him. "I've been away . . . And now I'm back." She curses the tightness in her throat.

"Wonderful!" He nods. "And with company." His gaze turns to Snape.

"Yes. This is my friend . . . Severus." She hadn't even considered that she might have to introduce him—but it feels surprisingly natural. "He's not been here before."

"Ah, then we'll be sure to look after him." Jacob raises an eyebrow. "Table outside?"

"Yes please . . . near the water."

He delivers a slight bow. "Follow me."

He leads them to a table for two at the very end of the pier, a sculpted glass bottle of oil and vinegar and a dish of condiments adorning a crisp white table cloth, the overhead lanterns reflecting perfectly in the glossy black water on all sides.

"Give me a moment to deliver these." Jacob indicates the items in his hands. "And I'll be back with your menus."

Severus immediately steps around to assist Hermione into her seat before taking his own. She watches him as he sits, folding his hands on the table and nodding appreciatively. It puts her at ease. So much so that she instantly reaches out and grasps the fleshy part of his thumb.

"I understand that you find such discussions uncomfortable," she murmurs quickly before he can interject. "But I must tell you how much I appreciate what you have done for me. And I would like you to consider this a very small token of my gratitude."

His eyes fall to their hands before he swallows. "I'm glad to be of service."

She looks at him quizzically, detecting something in his manner, his tone. Not irony . . . or even sarcasm . . . something . . . different.

"And here are your menus . . ." Jacob returns and Hermione withdraws, taking the proffered leather folder.

"Drinks?" he flips open a small pad of paper.

"Wine?" Snape glances at Hermione.

She agrees.

"A bottle of Nero d'Avola," he states confidently, his pronunciation flawless.

"Of course." The waiter delivers another small bow before slipping back into the shadows.

"It would seem that you are a regular here." Snape regards her with interest.

"Used to be," she admits. "Vincent and Jacob have had this place for years."

"They're a couple?"

"Yes."

"And yet you've been . . . intimate."

Hermione's eyes snap up to his. "What makes you say that?"

"He doesn't like me."

"So you naturally assume that I've slept with everyone who doesn't like you?" she asks, her voice tight with indignation.

"That would require me to assume that you have slept with practically everyone in the English speaking world," he drawls. "No. I can tell by the way he looks at you."

Hermione's anger is melted somewhat by his self-deprecation, the inferred flattery . . . and then there's the fact that he is absolutely right.

"Perhaps . . ." She avoids his gaze. "But he's still gay, so what does that tell you?"

"That he has poor taste . . . Which doesn't bode well for that bottle of wine—I should have insisted upon seeing the list."

He directs his disapproving gaze back in the direction that the waiter had taken.

Hermione stares at him. It was delivered with such liquid fluency, and followed by such a clever diversion, that she almost missed it—a compliment. A big compliment. A gargantuan compliment if the person delivering it was taken into account.

A small smile tugs her lips. _Could he . . . like her?_

Then reality sets in . . . no doubt he's just trying to make up for his earlier offense.

The waiter returns with the bottle and uncorks it with a flourish before pouring a small amount into Snape's glass.

Snape's large nose lingers over it, nostrils flaring, before he expertly sucks in a mouthful.

Expressionless. He hands the glass back to the waiter. "Have you tasted this, yourself?"

"Yes, sir, we are extremely familiar with the entire range that we provide." The waiter's pearly smile falters.

"I'm afraid I find it rather . . . insipid." Snape's lip curls in mild disgust. "Perhaps you can provide something with a little more . . . body."

Jacob's jaw firms as he attempts to maintain his fading smile. His hardened gaze darts to Hermione for a moment, before he lifts his nose slightly in reluctant concedence. "I'll see what I can do."

"Good man," Snape mutters after him.

The smile that had been threatening to emerge now edges across her lips. "He's my friend," she admonishes—but there's no bite in it. She happens to find Snape's dry wit on her behalf rather endearing. In fact, it is rapidly feeding into her burgeoning desire . . . into an escalating need, akin to when she'd kissed him.

The new bottle returns. Snape delivers a brief nod of approval this time, and their food orders are taken.

Hermione lifts the glass to her nose. It's strong, but not overwhelming. And when she tips a small amount into her mouth, a welcome flood of pleasant memories comes with it. She swallows. There is nothing but taste—lovely and full and warming. She sighs with relief.

"Tell me what you've been doing . . . since your recovery." Hermione leans forward, emboldened by her pleasure.

He regards her over his glass. "I expect that most of my movements have already been related to you by Professor McGonagall."

When nothing further comes, she presses him. "Minerva has said very little."

He takes a gulp and looks out across the slick surface of the water, to the point at which it blends with the night sky into nothingness.

"There is very little to say." His voice is quiet, almost wistful. "Things have been very much as they are now—mercifully uneventful. Certainly nothing . . . of note."

Whilst his statement is clearly intended to relate that his current bland existence is of his own choosing, Hermione senses that his life is somewhat lacking, or at least more mundane than he would wish.

"Surely the Ministry would have been keen to laud you efforts after you were awarded the Order of Merlin? I imagine that there would have been invitations for a range of high level positions."

"I would have none of it," he replies abruptly, his dark eyes flashing. "I had been used enough."

His bitter tone and depth of feeling stab her. She wonders then if he perceives her as yet another . . . Another after their pound of flesh. Or rather their pound of—

"And you?" He leans back slightly to appraise her.

She sighs, trailing her fingertips around the base of her glass. "I would venture that my life has been even less newsworthy. My position at the law firm was terminated as you know. I spent a year trying to fix myself to no avail. I undertook my teacher training in record time. And now . . . I'm here . . . a Hogwarts Professor struggling to appear legitimate . . . and no doubt failing in the eyes of some."

He looks at her hard. "I didn't mean to suggest—"

"Risotto for the lovely lady." Jacob places a steaming bowl in front of Hermione before swivelling deftly and sliding Snape's plate under his nose. "And the Fettuccini Napolitana."

Hermione delivers a small smile in Jacob's direction. Snape doesn't respond, eyes remaining fixed upon Hermione. Sensing tension, Jacob leaves and Hermione finally meets Snape's penetrating gaze.

"I've been looking forward to this for a long time." She places both palms on the table. "I apologise for bringing up my insecurities—I think the wine is already going to my head." With that, she grabs her glass and takes another gulp. "But I am genuinely grateful that you are here because, without you, all this would be no more than another beautiful, futile dream."

She picks up her fork and digs into her risotto. She was serious—she had dreamed of this moment—innumerable times. It had signified, for her, the end—the final demonstration that she was 'better.' The rich scent of the wine and stock, fresh herbs, as well as the aroma of aged parmesan wafts over her and she has to swallow down the drool.

Finally the fork makes it into her mouth and she is instantly in heaven. Vincent had always prepared an amazing risotto but this was beyond anything she had ever tasted . . . it was absolutely otherworldly.

Groaning, she closes her eyes, revelling in the soft creaminess of each pearly grain, the perfect freshness of the herbs, the salty bite of the parmesan. Each chew brings a new burst of rapture that has her moaning with mounting vigour. Finally she swallows with a wilting groan that she only realises sounds distinctly orgasmic once she has finished it.

Cracking her eyes open, she sees the smirk on his lips and places a hand over her own mouth.

"I'm so sorry," she murmurs in embarrassment. "But this is just . . ." She shakes her head, unable to articulate further.

"Do you require a silencing charm?" He continues to regard her with amusement.

She coughs into her hand. "No, I think I can . . . I think I can control myself."

"I'm just concerned that that waiter will be wondering what I'm . . . doing to you."

She may have disregarded it—let it pass as a throw-away line—but the way it is delivered, the emphasis on 'doing to you', lubricated by the slick reverb of his baritone—it strikes her right where she imagines her uterus to be. Hunching forward, she shoves in another mouthful before he can see the flames rising in her cheeks.

She follows each mouthful with more wine. And he does the same, elegantly forking pasta into his mouth, occasionally dabbing with a napkin and drawing deeply from his glass until the bottle is empty. They mainly comment on the food, a little on the ambience, and by the end, Hermione is feeling as good as she's ever felt in her life. She's undoubtedly tipsy. But she's also deliciously full, not achingly so, and filled with a fuzzy warmth that pulses gently inside and out. Perfect. Absolutely perfect . . . except for that tiny smear of sauce right below his—

Leaning forward, she reaches toward his face, trailing the tip of her index finger just under his bottom lip. But before she can withdraw, she finds herself caught by the wrist. And held there.

His eyes lock with hers and she wonders if he is about to admonish her. But then, ever so slowly, his lips, flushed from the wine and feasting, ease apart and she has a rare glimpse of his tongue, emerging from the shadowy chamber of his mouth to usher her finger inside.

"Gods," she gasps, shuddering at the intensity of moist heat that he suddenly manages to concentrate on her single sensitive digit. As he increases the suction, his tongue rolls gently and the raw eroticism of the sensation, as though her finger has penetrated her own pussy, rather than his mouth, injects her core with a shot of molten arousal.

"Unnhhh," she moans as the tip of his tongue glides up the underside, her head pitching forward, fingers of her free hand stretching and splaying in exquisite agony against the table cloth.

She never allows it to go this far . . . because of what is happening now. She can hear it, the harsh grating of her breath, her needy keening, and then there is the aching barrel of tension inside her, popping and straining as though it is about to explode.

"I assumed that she was responding to the food."

Severus' eyes swivel sideways. The waiter is there; the friendly smile is not.

Slowly he pulls her finger from his mouth, releasing it with a soft sucking sound.

"Not this time," he mutters bluntly. "Bill, please."


	12. Out and In

Footsteps tapping out an urgent rhythm on the pier, they leave the restaurant behind, laughter and music gradually fading until it is lost in the static rip of Apparition. Two of her short strides to every one of his has her panting but her index finger, balled in her tight fist, and still marinating in the latent heat and moisture of his mouth, is adding a ragged edge to her respiratory efforts.

She is thankful for the rigid angle of his elbow which allows her to cling on as his boots rapidly devour the gravel path to the castle. He is clearly in a hurry . . . _Is it for the same reason as she?_

Severus thrusts his hand into the pocket of his frock coat. It is the only way that he can hope to discreetly rearrange his tumescent cock which is thudding against his thigh like an over-sized bell clapper. As with the previous times, the urge for relief is over-whelming. He hasn't any particular plan for how or where it is to occur. But, with or without her, it's going to have to happen . . . and soon.

The remainder of the journey to the dungeons is at an equally frenetic pace that has Hermione wincing, not only with the vehement protests from her burdened feet but also the mounting throb between her legs. The friction of her knickers against her already-straining clitoris has it buffed into a ball of such exquisite tension that her fingers are practically embedded in his arm. And the immense frustration is that there is absolutely no way to relieve it. Not unless—

He stops.

The sudden stillness of their feet but the continued feverish thud of their pulses and ragged wheeze of their breaths infuses his subsequent invitation with a deep, husky desperation that grasps and wrenches at her pussy.

"Dessert?"

She can only nod.

He unlocks his door with a flourish and then pushes it open for her to enter.

Stepping through and closing it, he turns, expecting for her to have continued into the room. But she is right there. And her hand is on his chest.

"I can't let you touch me," she whispers.

He pauses, before nodding slowly.

"Will you let me touch you?"

The pause is greater this time; the frown more severe. But he nods again.

Brown eyes widening with intensity, she brings up her other hand and forces him with surprising strength, back against the door. Momentarily he lifts his hands, an automatic defence, but then allows them to sink back to his sides.

She splays her fingers across his pectoral muscles before drawing her thumbs slowly under the ridged outline that she can feel flexing—even through his coat. He had always been surprisingly muscular. And it seems he has lost little since she'd last touched him like this.

He watches her intently, the dark smoulder of his eyes betraying exactly what kind of dessert he'd had in mind. She hadn't been wrong. It's just that, with him, she was bound to second-guess herself. After all, he was the master of disorientation—of driving one to helpless, increasingly frenetic ruminations before collapsing, bereft, under his gaze.

Not this time. This time she is willing to be consumed—to immerse herself in the depth of his intense examination. She would dearly love to. But for his sake she doesn't—she closes her eyes.

Her exploration continues. She gradually glides her palms up the surprisingly soft weave of his coat to his neck before traversing the starched parapet of his shirt collar, and spilling over to the warm flush of his throat. Her fingertips survey his Adam's apple, the rigid contours absolutely still, betraying nothing. But it is the fierce throb of his pulse alongside that tells her everything she needs to know.

Murmuring a quiet incantation under her breath, she trails one hand down his front, releasing each button in turn, laying their tight formation asunder as her other hand slips through the exposed folds—his first line of defence. Her fingertips engage a smattering of fine hairs, then the ridge of his collar bone, before grazing upward and encountering the first one. He stiffens. She stops.

Her other hand, now upon his solar plexus, opens, the heel pressing against his diaphragm. She feels him begin to breathe again. She wants to check his face but she won't. Her eyes stay shut.

Her fingertips glide across the knotty knolls and tors of his scar. The skin pulls and strains as he twists his head away but she lingers. He has run from this before. He'd spurned her because of it. It feels stupidly dangerous to go there again but it also feels important. She isn't up to playing games anymore, she's too old, and she has to know . . .

More buttons submit to her murmured suggestion. He doesn't push her away. She moves closer.

Both hands are now free to slip beneath the open hang of coat and shirt, they take opposite journeys across the warm soil, the open field of potholes and trenches that relate the torrid story of his existence. He shudders—an earthquake—but she holds on . . .

And finally he stills.

Pushing aside the solid drape of clothing, she uses his warmth as her guide. Her lips flutter across his skin, riding the quivering vibration of muscles beneath, before alighting on a single location—both hard and soft, the tiny stiff peak of his nipple that her tongue now plies gently as he moans. Her lips snare the pebble of flesh, sucking it into her mouth, and he responds—a sharp inhalation—followed by his strong hand, grasping at her hip.

She instantly traps it. So little of her is better; so much remains intolerant.

His fingernails scratch against the door where she pins them. She understands his agitation—especially considering the increasingly insistent twitches of his bulging crotch . . . and the fact that she's been carefully navigating its significant presence since she started.

Perhaps it is now time.

She opens her eyes.

His face is awash with a torrent of emotions—as she knew it would be. This type of exposure had always been a source of intense discomfort. And that's why she had afforded him some level of privacy, at least from her gaze.

He'd shouted many things at her before she'd left him that last time. But the most overwhelming accusation had been that she had violated him. Despite the deep hurt, it was a statement she had revisited many times over the years, ruminating over its source. Whilst she had garnered much from him in his semi-conscious state, this final blow-up had suggested that she had breached something of significance—some sort of pact—some agreement he'd had with himself over preserving the private shame of his suffering. She had witnessed it . . . all of it . . . and without his invitation.

That same pain is written on his face now. But it is tempered by other emotions . . . an intricate collage of influences . . . including, mercifully, those dark motes of desire.

And so she reaches for his fly, pulling the buttons apart and pushing the waist down over his hips. His cock springs free and she catches it, looking him in the eyes as she squeezes gently with her fist.

"Take it . . ." His voice is hoarse as he curls his fingers against the door. She stares at him. ". . . Wherever . . . you need it."

 _Take it?_

It is so reminiscent of that terrible moment in the Shrieking Shack, when he had asked Harry to do the same. But that time it had been tears . . . his own tears—the final part of himself that he'd had to give.

And he was doing the same for her.

She very rarely wept anymore. There had been so many reasons to do so, and so many emotions that called for it on a regular basis, that she'd become rather cynical about the value of such indulgences. But there was nothing that rationality could do for her now.

Releasing her grip upon him, she stands in silence as her face slowly collapses and the tears begin to fall. She can't deny her desperate desire for his healing essence. It has become a lifeline that she covets above almost anything else. But the thought that it is all she values in him is pitifully sad and completely untrue.

There are no words capable of bringing the comfort she seeks—for them both—and so she turns to the universal language in the hope that it can begin to convey her feelings.

Lifting a hand, she slides it under his open collar once again before curling around his neck to draw him down to her. Her other hand slips up to cradle his jaw, guiding him to her parted lips, trembling and wet with tears. And he meets her with equal tenderness, pressing one silky pad between hers before drawing her top lip into the warmth of his mouth, the tip of his tongue lightly skimming its contours.

Teary and congested, she releases him to draw a gasping breath before lunging back with increased vigour, lapping into his mouth as the hand on his cheek slides up to tunnel into his hair. His forceful response, mouth opening to claim hers, draws a throaty moan that shocks her with its desirous depth but also betrays everything she wants him to know. She allows her complex feelings further expression through increasingly passionate incursions into him, her tongue exploring and tasting his masculine essence with each thrust, and he meeting her with matching hunger until they are both groaning and panting with abandon.

Finally she pulls away, small frame heaving from the effort, before taking him by the hand. She leads him over to a high backed chair by his table, turning it around before ushering him gently into it. He sits, eyes never leaving her.

Tossing her shawl aside, she hitches up the sides of her dress and locates the elastic to her knickers. With a wandless seam-splitting incantation, they drop to the floor. He notices them—soaked in arousal. Kicking them aside, she approaches, grasping the back of the chair behind his head to steady herself before straddling his lap.

As she stands, one leg either side of his, she leans forward to taste him once more—partly to assuage the grinding hunger that she has for him, the irresistible enticement of that achingly sexy mouth that originally set her in this state back at the restaurant—and partly in an attempt to reassure him that she has feelings for him beyond this . . . beyond what she is about to make him give her.

As she kisses him, she grasps the hand resting on his thigh and guides it to his cock, wrapping his fingers around his own member and her small fingers around his. Encouraging his fist to stroke, she brings her other hand to his bare chest and finds his nipple again, squeezing it until he bites her lip, making her core contract painfully with desire. She whimpers, dearly hoping that his essence will work as well internally as it does externally.

His hand beneath hers tugs forcefully, much less gentle than when she'd done it to him. His breathing in her mouth hitches and she senses that he is already close. _Perhaps her earlier attention did have some effect?_ Releasing his pumping fist, she straightens and hitches her dress up higher until she can position her pussy over him. Placing her hand as a shield, determined not to waste a drop, she watches his face. His eyelids fall closed as his mouth falls open; a groan seizes his chest and she suddenly feels it—warm jets spattering against her pussy and palm.

Managing to hold off until the final surge, she instantly massages his cream into her, spreading it liberally between her folds and over her clitoris which has managed to work itself into a sparking frisson of arousal. She finishes by smearing a generous amount over the head of his cock before positioning the large bulb at her entrance.

"I hope you don't mind," she murmurs apologetically. "I understand this is probably not what you want right now but it is going to reach far further than my fingers ever will."

He's still breathing heavily but inclines his head to indicate for her to continue. Folding her bottom lip between her teeth, she grasps the back of the chair tightly and gradually lowers herself. The stretch is instant. Her legs stiffen. _Stop_.

She needs to take it slowly. However, while his cock is currently still swollen enough to assist, she realises it won't be like that forever. And since she wants it as deeply inside her as possible, she pushes more forcefully.

"Oh, fuck!"

Her head drops down to her chest before she remembers herself.

"Sorry . . . it's just . . ."

He makes no comment. She glances up to see a mixture of concern and amusement on his face. A small breathy chuckle suddenly escapes her as she realises how painfully ridiculous this is for him also. Still, she must press on—and she does—wincing as his, not insubstantial, member squeezes further inside her.

She closes her eyes. It's not even erect and it feels like she's trying to impale herself on a lamp post. _Gods!_ But she can also feel something else happening—something changing. The entrance to her pussy is no longer howling and the soothing relief seems to be spreading. Rocking her hips, she gradually lowers herself further, millimetre by millimetre, until she is finally there—deliciously full.

It's a sensation she hasn't felt in years and she realises with a sudden surge of longing, how much she has missed it. There are still aftershocks rolling through her, violent reactions to the foreign intrusion, but they are diminishing, and the relief of knowing that she may, once again, enjoy such intimate pleasures squeezes her heart so comprehensively that she loses her grip on the chair and collapses, forehead on his shoulder, fingers curled into his neck.

"Can I just wait here . . . like this . . . for a moment?"

"Take as long as you need." His voice is low and gentle and melts her against him just a little more.

He feels her relieved sigh whisper across his skin and he smiles. He's genuinely pleased—for her—that she has discovered a balm, regardless of the origin, and one that's as life-enhancing as this is proving to be.

But he is also awash with gratitude for his own circumstance. Despite the fact that he is still aching to touch her, and that she is awkwardly squatting, impaled on the less-than-impressive remnants of his wilting member, he knows that, connected to her like this, he has never felt more complete in his life.


	13. Break and Mend

He answers the soft knock at his laboratory door and she enters—her spontaneous but weary smile enough to give him an instant lift. She'd left the previous evening in a torrent of effusive, but wholly unnecessary, apologies and he'd remained sitting, shirt and coat gaping, cock out, for so long that he'd had to cast several warming incantations before he'd been able to mobilise and finally drag himself to bed.

His dreams had been dark and troubled but he'd been unable to recall much beyond an uneasy sense of foreboding when he'd awoken. Since then, the day hadn't improved—back to back lessons and a mundane meeting between the House Masters and the Head Mistress who seemed all too keen to inquire about the progress of his current guest.

Of course he had absolutely no intention of divulging anything of their relationship—if it could indeed be considered in such terms. And it wasn't as though he didn't have myriad questions of his own.

"You wanted to see me?" She sinks into the chair opposite, making a valiant effort to appear upbeat but the tightness in her brow betrays the fact that she is clearly bone tired. _Had her sleep been as torrid as his own?_

"The Head Mistress has asked me to provide a forecast." He leans forward over clasped hands, speaking quickly so as not to keep her any longer than necessary. "She wants an accurate prediction of potion productivity so that payment advances can be requested."

"Is the school really that desperate for funds?" She frowns.

"Yes."

Sighing, she lifts a palm towards him. "I'll assist wherever I can. I can harvest . . . prepare . . . brew . . . sort . . . package . . . even clean. I learn quickly . . . just tell me what you need of me."

He leans back in his seat, hoping that he hadn't appeared too forceful. "It will require us to work together . . . on weekends to begin with. And may include additional evenings if production is behind."

"Of course."

There isn't a moment's hesitation. He appraises her, delicate brows raised to emphasise her words—to confirm that her support for him is without question. And the tightness in his stomach, a tension that he hadn't even recognised as present, instantly dissipates. He realises that the unfamiliar calm is, in fact, relief . . . a surprising tranquility instilled by the sense of a burden shared.

He couldn't remember a time in the past when he hadn't felt the full weight of some grave responsibility upon his shoulders. He had occasionally been forced to rely upon the assistance of others but generally made efforts to avoid it, preferring the security granted by compulsive distrust.

But the idea of a working partnership, one with the promise of regular company and the opportunity for intelligent conversation, buoys him more than he could have thought possible. And the fact that it is with the person sitting opposite—exceedingly bright, endearingly sincere, intriguingly sensual and unknowingly responsible for this—the extraordinary resurrection that already seems to be manifesting itself once again in his trousers—makes it all the more appealing.

She stands. "Is that all you wished to discuss?"

There is something in her inquiring gaze, russet and elusive in the lamplight . . . another of the unspoken remnants that seem to be mounting between them.

He decides that it is now time to put a voice to his thoughts.

"If you are to progress in your recovery, I believe that it is going to be important to determine whether the healing effects are unique to myself of if this is a generalised phenomenon."

She looks at him hard as though having difficulty processing his words. "What are you suggesting? That someone else's . . . semen . . . might be equally effective?"

He shrugs. "It's quite possible."

Her eyes drop to the floor for a moment, lips hovering around a silent thought before she appears to gather herself. "I do understand the burden that I have placed upon you."

"I beg your pardon?"

Her eyes lift to his. "I don't blame you for wishing for me to seek an alternative."

His brows knit together as he pushes himself up from his chair.

"That was not my intention."

"It really doesn't matter," she assures him, turning slightly as he steps around the desk and slowly approaches. "I didn't ever expect that this would be a permanent arrangement."

"Really?" The word spirals languorously off his tongue.

Her lips move but she has difficulty forming words as he closes in, each deliberate step accentuated by the cool slide of his fingers across the desktop.

"Why not?"

A thread of warning winds down her spine.

"I . . . I just . . . I didn't expect that you'd want . . ." She hastily turns her back to the desk as he stops in front of her.

"That I would want . . .?" He leans in. She reaches back, grasping the edge of the desk before she falls onto it. ". . . What?" His breath, cool and restrained, caresses her cheek.

Eyes shuttering against the pain, she whimpers her sorry admission, ". . . Me"—instantly surrendering the column of her throat as her face tips away from his heated gaze.

But he follows. Not allowing her to escape, he tracks her, the tip of his nose hovering so close to hers that she barely dares to breathe.

"And what if the opposite . . . were true?" His murmur ruffles against her lips, but they do not touch.

She can't respond but her breasts shudder against the heat of his chest as he presses closer still. Gripping the desk on either side of her but still maintaining an infinitesimal gap between their bodies, he finally alights at a single point, his nose against her cheek.

The intimate blur of his face so close to hers, the whispery caress from the bold curve of his nose, and now his lips feathering exquisitely along the sensitive line of her jaw turns her legs boneless.

As she attempts to arch into him, trying for more contact despite her body's protests, he flexes away, each tantalising titbit of touch clearly a deliberate act of enticement, plucking away at her sanity as much as her restraint. She whimpers with the arrival of his searing tongue—a steamy sensory escalation that has her eyelids falling closed and her mouth opening searchingly, seeking to ensnare her tormenters, to draw them inside for a taste of her own lascivious plundering.

But she doesn't capture him. He breaks away. And before her eyes can venture open, she feels it—a large presence—between her legs.

Her eyes fly open to find him there—on one knee. Hands lost beneath her dress, their location is revealed a split-second later by a shifting shivery graze—the first fingers to explore her labia, including her own, in years.

Her head pitches back as his touch gradually emboldens, firming as he slithers deeper into her crevice until, through her knickers, she feels his fingertip curl briefly into her opening.

Tightening her grip on the desk with a needy moan, she spreads her thighs wide and, seconds later, her knickers are gone, her pussy suddenly exposed and gaping but, as she would reflect later, stupidly naïve and entirely unprepared for what is about to come . . . her complete and utter deconstruction.

She feels it first as a light pressure at her apex, then a burst of sensation as he slips between her lips. But he stops just there, and she holds her breath as he lingers, rubbing delicately with the pad of one finger before, without warning, detonating her clitoris. Releasing the air in an explosive burst, she shudders as scorching flares leap through her core, his fingers plying her with such shocking expertise that her mouth drops open with a tremulous gasp.

The carnality of the sensation alone would be sufficient to send her into erotic bliss but when she ventures her hooded gaze downward and witnesses his expression—raw desire imbuing the shadowed angles of his features, emblazoned within the flush of his skin, igniting the depths of his impossibly black eyes—she finds her hips suddenly rocking for more, as though she isn't only barely coping with what he is giving her.

Then his fingers delve forward, sluicing through the juices that she can already feel flooding her pussy, before curling and sliding up inside. She cries out. Despite having his cock inside her the previous evening, this is very different. His long, thrusting fingers attend to her with such wicked provocation that she is only vaguely aware of the hoarse mewling that rasps from her throat.

And just when she feels that her pussy, after such a long, lonely hiatus, is set to ignite and explode with the friction of his frenetic pumping, he lifts her dress, magically securing it at her hips, before propping his other hand on the desk by her own clenching fist and leaning forward to slip his tongue between her folds.

"Oh, Gods . . . Oh . . . fuckkkhhhh . . . unnnhhh."

She loses control over all vocalisation as her flicks the head of her clitoris over and over again whilst reaming the clenching walls of her tunnel. Then he thrusts his mouth forward, laving deeply, the slick sound of his muscle penetrating her juices, pouring an erotic symphony into her hyper-attuned ears that sends her careening even closer to an earth-shattering pelvic paroxysm.

She is shaking now, struggling to hold herself up. If he had done this prior to the previous evening she would be screaming the place down in agony, but now she is hyperventilating under the weight of years of carnal yearning, her unintelligible moans having taken on a distinctly primal edge. The mounting speed of his plunges and deft whipping of her clitoris between his lips forces her hand into his hair, fisting his locks harder than she intends to but simultaneously incapable of letting go.

And then he growls, deep and animalistic. She feels the vibration through her pussy and it finally pushes her over.

She screams, mouth open to the ceiling as she comes harder than she has ever come in her life—bucking and jolting against the desk, her entire body erupts in earth-shattering convulsions. Her pussy jerks and wrenches around the plunging fingers still inside her, simultaneously expelling a liberating stream of juice, her scream turning into breathy moans on the back of each hot, pulsing release.

And he is there, lapping up the fruits of his efforts, head delving rhythmically beneath her fingers as she continues to twitch, shudder and ooze through the aftershocks.

Finally he stands, hands returning to the desk either side of her, lips and chin glistening, the air redolent with her musky release.

"I hope I've made myself . . . clear," he growls, the sex on his voice still managing to tug at her shattered core.

"I . . . I think so."

He frowns.

"But . . . just in case . . ." She winces as she swallows through her shredded throat. "Maybe you should show me again?"


	14. Tit and Tat

"Maybe you should show me again?"

He trails his tongue along his arousal-slicked bottom lip as he appraises her. Despite her decidedly brazen suggestion, he is quite confident from her presiding demeanour of slack-jawed astonishment that she is more than satisfied with the exchange. It wasn't something he'd planned—although admittedly he'd thought about having sex with her enough times. She might be ill but she was still extremely capable—moreso than he in certain matters—and possessed a determination that continued to impress him. Physically she was slight, but she was also feminine, elegant and sensuous and, from their recent interactions, distinctly sexual, despite its forced repression. That was something that they, at least, had in common.

Indeed, he suspected that this moment—clearly her first orgasm in an extraordinarily long time—would mean a lot to her . . . and he acknowledges now that he wanted it to.

The idea of another man coming on her had seemed theoretically sound but when she'd responded the way she did, and he'd been forced to consider the reality—especially the possibility of it involving someone like that poncey fucker in the restaurant—he'd realised how very much it went against the grain.

He didn't want her to misinterpret him. He didn't pity her—she was too strong for that. But if she'd left thinking he was trying to rid himself of her, and found someone else who also happened to be able to heal her, he had little doubt that she would be lost to him. And for someone who'd been unable to sustain more than the occasional fuck as the basis for his closest adult relationship, the idea of finding someone who tolerated him, even when he'd been a veritable bastard on more than one occasion, seemed like an opportunity that he couldn't afford to pass up.

He was only a few years shy of fifty for fuck's sake. And while that might be young by Wizarding standards, when one had had to live out every wretched year being traumatised, bored, nearly dead or indiscriminately pissed off with the world . . . it felt far longer than anyone would want to endure.

She'd gone to great lengths to demonstrate that she wasn't simply after the inexplicably miraculous product of his loins. But in some ways he didn't care . . . he'd rather she wanted him for that than not at all. And after his little foray downstairs, at least he felt he had a chance of keeping her . . . and the look in her eye suggested that his odds were better than average.

"Scratch that," she murmurs, focusing on his crotch. "I have a better idea."

He follows her gaze . . . greeted by the usual trouser distortion that has come to be synonymous with her presence.

"I think perhaps . . ." She places a hand on each of his wrists, planting them firmly on the edge of the desk. ". . . it might be my turn to make a point."

Suddenly leaning forward, she licks under his bottom lip, swiping away her arousal before dipping her tongue into his mouth. He can taste it. And her tongue prods rhythmically, insistently against his—a firm, moist nub, very much like her clitoris . . . and he knows she knows exactly what she's doing . . . he'd sensed it . . . a dormant carnality, waiting to be reawakened.

She repeats the process before sucking his entire bottom lip into her mouth, working her tongue over it, thoroughly devouring her essence before biting down into the soft flesh and tugging gently. He allows her to nibble at him, her shining eyes betraying a delicious hunger that he is more than happy to assuage.

Gradually pulling back, she finally lets it pop from her mouth and he feels it throbbing and swollen, a perfect oral emulation of his cock which continues to pulse and strain below.

With an enigmatic glint in her eye, she releases his wrists, slithering down between his arms before proceeding to open his trousers in record time and setting to work on the other.

Sucking air between his teeth, head hanging between his propped arms, he watches her cradle his cock in a manner he's never encountered before. His past sexual encounters normally involved them grasping the base, a job sometimes requiring two hands, before proceeding to lick or suck—often with a theatrical edge which he found rather disingenuous and off-putting.

But she has both hands arranged, one interleaved in the base of the next as though tenderly enfolding the body of a sleeping animal, and begins gently lapping the underside, nudging it against her palms in such a meticulous, reverential manner that he is quite taken aback.

Her lips saunter unhurriedly over his length as her hands continue their shifting caress around him. It would have been akin to some sort of cock hypnosis if it wasn't so fucking arousing. As it was, the sight of her tongue dipping and gliding from between soft, sensuous lips, eyes shuttered almost completely in what looked like mesmeric ardour, causes his chest to swell, filling with a prickling ache that he can't explain . . . or at least he isn't currently inclined to interrogate.

Gradually, she works her way up to the loose overhang of his frenulum where she delicately prods and tugs with her tongue until he is sure that it must be directly attached to the margins of his mouth and eyebrows, both of which hitch and jerk each time she plucks. Finally, she draws an appreciative gasp from his lips as her tongue proceeds to wiggle into the tapered apex of his corona —there is definitely something to be said for a witch with exceptional senses—her attention to detail is impeccable.

And then that same care and precision is applied to the curve of his head, the flat of her tongue is exposed to him, clenching and furrowing as her tip polishes the underside before swiping up to engage with his glans. And it is the introduction of her moist heat to that most sensitive part of his body that sends his core into meltdown.

With a wilting groan, he clamps his fingers onto the desk even harder. And her eyes are suddenly upon him. No longer lost within herself, rapt in her exploration, she fixes him with her honey-flecked gaze and proceeds to absorb the equally honeyed pearl that glistens on his tip, eyelashes flaring momentarily as it merges with her tongue.

His own eyes fall closed, the intensity too extreme, the need almost too great—clearly he isn't the only one who enjoys administering the slow tease. Then, with all of the control he can muster, he stills his hips that have started to strain forward of their own volition . . . this is supposed to be her moment after all.

"Gods!" The inadvertent exclamation ends in a hiss between his clenched teeth before he cuts it off with a bite of his lips. He is well aware that she has heard him vocalise before, but that had been when things were far more advanced. She'd barely even started . . . _could he really afford to be out of control so early in the proceedings?_

But when she makes her next move—engulfing him fully—he groans even louder, eyes flying open. Her lips stretch around him more easily than most, deceptive in their capacity. And with her tongue slithering in a distinctly serpentine fashion as she rocks her elegant jaw, he finds himself now whimpering like a child.

The hands that were cradling him now grasp his shaft and begin pumping expertly. There is none of the ill-directed, nebulous meanderings that he'd occasionally endured—feeble attempts to appear committed. She is working him with such determination that his hips finally break free from their tenuous moorings and thrust into her. Her response is simply to open further, accepting more of him, and the whispered 'Yes' that falls from his lips, a tumbling leaf of gratitude, is the last intelligible word that he is able to utter.

Her fist rotates rhythmically, each firm stroke landing emphatically at the base of his cock and setting his balls into motion. Meanwhile her head bobs and undulates, the fine skin of her cheeks intermittently flaring as the head of his cock slides past—a delicious visual that causes his insides to pitch and yaw like a boat in a wild ocean—which is very much how he feels.

He can't look at her without seeing primal craving etched in the lines of her resolute features, in the bold suction of her lips and vigorous encouragement of her furiously pumping hands. For him, there had never been a site more erotic.

His vocalisations have deteriorated into breathy grunts but he barely hears them—lost in that blissful pre-ejaculatory haze. He focuses on the depth of sensation, the slithery heat of her tongue as it strokes his throbbing glans, her lips and fingers meeting over and again in their impressive coverage of his tumid shaft, the wet moans as he drags the saliva from her with each thrust of his own.

And he's suddenly there.

He feels her mouth break free and, through shuttered eyes, sees her tear the front of her dress open with one hand. Continuing to pump with the other, she sprays his seed over her bare breasts, groaning in what becomes an ecstatic chorus with his own release. He continues to rock into her fist even as the exuberant spurts diminish into drops. And she carefully takes it all, finally trailing his spent tip against one tight nipple.

The sight of his glistening seed and its erratic expression over her flawless skin is more gratifying than he could have imagined. Normally it would be discreetly deposited into some hole or crevice, but having his mark laying gratuitous claim over her delectably pert breasts reignites that sense of potency that has been building with each encounter. And when she proceeds to massage it into herself, strong fingers smearing the creamy fluid over her mounds and drawing out the points of her nipples, he groans softly. If he hadn't already come, it would have easily brought him there.

Finally she stands, shaky from squatting before him. She is a veritable mess. Her hair hangs in limp strands against her slick face, her lips are bruised and swollen and her dress gapes around her sticky breasts.

But she doesn't even need to inquire whether she has made her point. He knows it is written all over his face—the fact that he wants to be the one. And not simply the one to cure her.


	15. Near and Far

A rolling hush descends over the Great Hall. Severus looks up from the careful dissection of his kipper to see her standing just inside the doorway, hands clasped before her in an attempt to appear casual, but the white of her knuckles sufficient to indicate that she is anything but. She forces a smile and makes her way over to the empty seat to his left, footsteps echoing in the unnatural quiet.

Gradually both staff and students resume their conversations. Whispers are exchanged with little discretion. There are short bursts of laughter. She does well to ignore them, murmuring a quiet order to the house-elf in service who promptly nods and disappears.

She busies herself with straightening her cutlery, draping a napkin across her lap and carefully avoiding his gaze.

Her eyes wander over the bobbing sea of heads. She smiles. His eyes trace the direction of her own. Gryffindor table . . . a beaming face and frantically waving hand. _Why isn't he surprised?_ The other insufferable know-it-all. Two peas in a pod.

He feels an inexplicable warmth—unusual but not unpleasant—still a contrast to the usual buffer of derision that he tends to pack around himself. But it is simultaneously worrying. _Is he, in fact, going soft in his old age?_ The use of the phrase 'peas in a pod' is of particular concern.

Her breakfast arrives, toast and jam, delivered with a courteous bow that she graciously returns. That warmth again. He frowns and looks away . . . nauseated by his own wetness.

Clearing his throat, he resumes his breakfast but finds that his entire attention is on her. She commandeers his periphery with little more than the sharp scrape of butter on toast. And yet it is clearly far more than that. Her departure the previous evening had been swift—a final tender press of her lips against this own, cinching her dress closed before slipping away.

And, again, he'd had too much time to think. He'd been practically catatonic, staring down at the woodgrain of his desk—wondering at the inexplicable flurry of sexual activity that it had witnessed in recent weeks. His hands had trailed over the oily smears of their fingerprints, his and hers, daubs of desperation and lust laid down as each had taken what the other had had to give. It had all been sublime—like a fantastical dream—one he'd clung onto for years before he'd been forced to accept the bitter truth that his deficits were permanent.

And now this. Strawberries—the ripe scent, rich and sticky, floods his nose as she spoons generous dollops onto each of two slices. Extraordinary. And it isn't the only sense to have improved. Indeed, when he'd first entered her—when his fingers had found their way inside her silken lair, sliding along the slick warmth of her walls, he'd known. He'd felt every twitch and pulse of her—how the pressure of his tongue on her clitoris had caused her muscles to hitch, to clutch desperately at him. And he'd thrust in deep—deeper than he perhaps should have, but he'd wanted to feel it all, to explore the unique contours of her, to immerse himself in her arousal, and to heighten it, engorging her, so that when she finally gathered, held shuddering on that exquisite precipice, before shattering—collapsing spectacularly around him—it would be something that stayed with her long into the night.

His mouth is hanging open. She's watching him. He closes it.

 _What is that? Kipper oil?_ Hermione focuses on the glistening smear below his bottom lip. Whilst she doesn't have any particular predilection for oily fish, the sight of it instantly stirs memories of the previous evening . . . the aftermath of his feasting . . . but that time it had been her own juices on his lips.

Her insides instantly surge and she has to look away. Quickly reaching for her tea cup, she takes a boorish swig while her mouth is full, realising that there is no way the toast is going to traverse her dry throat without help. Swallowing with some difficulty, she catches him looking at her and gives a small, shy nod before looking out over the boisterous tables, teacup balanced between her fingers as she pretends to wistfully ponder her past.

But when her eyes stray back to him, she notices the tip of his tongue dipping out to swipe away the oil. She is transfixed. His entire mouth, its blend of noble lines and sensuous curves is just so bloody delicious that she could very easily bite it again. Remembering herself, she glances around . . . _but perhaps not here_.

She picks up her toast to bite it instead. Something brushes her other hand. His—reaching for the pepper grinder.

"I could have passed it to you," she murmurs. "You only had to ask."

"Indeed," he responds, not looking at her as he cracks pepper over his plate. "If only it were that simple."

Her chewing slows as she watches him resume his meticulous slicing.

"Perhaps it is simpler than you presume?"

His eyes flicker sideways, briefly scanning her face, before he places another forkful between his lips. Chewing slowly and thoughtfully, he finishes before resting his cutlery-laden hands on the edge of the table.

"Very well," he mutters quietly. "Will you have dinner with me tonight?"

She feels a smile tugging at her lips but wills it to abate, sensing that her response is important. "Of course."

He nods, shoulders relaxing noticeably before he proceeds to complete his meal in silence.

Hermione spends much of the remainder with her mouth hovering over her teacup, taking tiny sips in between tiny smiles. She would never have considered it possible, but Severus Snape was actually rather sweet and, sort of, cute. Not that she would ever tell him such a thing. Especially since she had already glimpsed the other extreme . . . wild, potent and exceedingly sexy . . . a side that she liked just as much . . . if not more.

* * *

"So, can I ask where we are?" Hermione gathers her shawl around her as she glimpses the oily skin of a river slithering beyond the weeds and concrete of a moonlit vacant lot.

"Cokeworth."

She looks up at him. Little is discernible from his shadowed features but his arm is tense beneath her fingers. The name isn't new to her . . . but the only time she'd heard it previously was by his bedside—tangled within the slurred mutterings that often accompanied periods of fever. She had gathered then that it was a place of prominence in his life . . . _his home town?_

"Did you grow up here?"

"Yes."

The response is not abrupt. If anything, it holds a hint of uncertainty. She bites her lip in the darkness, quite taken aback by the fact that he has brought her there as it clearly isn't to show off—the decrepit state of the derelict buildings speaking to an underprivileged past.

They walk in silence.

At the main road, they turn right toward the river and immediately encounter a small pub, a panel by the door announcing in tired lettering, 'The Shipwright Arms.'

Severus holds the door open and she enters a surprisingly warm and cosy room, panelled in dark wood, a fire leaping in the hearth. A few patrons sit by the bar; others occupy tables and booths, chatting quietly.

The barman immediately raises a hand. 'Ay-up, Sev."

Severus nods. "Tony."

"Pint of the usual?"

"Good man."

"And for the lovely lady?"

"The same," Hermione interrupts before Severus can respond.

A slight inflection of his eyebrow hints at his surprise before he guides her to a small booth in the corner. She sinks into the comfortably padded seat as he takes that opposite. Immediately she senses the warmth of his long legs in the close confines, not touching but necessarily interleaved between her own.

"Not quite haute cuisine." There is a slight hitch to his mouth . . . almost a smile. "But the fish and chips are very good."

"I haven't eaten fish and chips in years," she smiles enthusiastically. "It's one of the things I've missed most."

He nods, looking a little pleased. Their drinks arrive and Hermione immediately lifts hers toward him.

"To our second date."

There is caution in his black eyes, a wary hesitation to his movements, but he does the same, clinking his large glass against her own before taking a sip.

She notices his long eyelashes shuttering in pleasure as he swallows and she suddenly understands why he has brought her there—comfort, familiarity. He is very much a creature of habit, and clearly this is one that he has kept up, perhaps throughout his entire life.

The thought alone comforts her. She, herself, has lost connection with practically everything and everyone that she valued throughout her life . . . even the simplicity of enjoying something like this—a lager at her local. It should make her sad but it doesn't—it makes her hopeful of the opportunity to, once again, reconnect. And the open simplicity of this gesture . . . the lack of pretence, the invitation to know him more deeply, fills her with a fuzzy warmth, enhanced by the bitter fluid that sends a pleasant shiver down her spine as she recalls the joy of a pint. This can't be easy for him. He's the most private man—the most private person—she has ever met. And she wants him to know that she appreciates it.

"I'd love to know what it was like . . . growing up here." She leans forward, her fingers crawling towards him until they just touch the tips of his own.

He stares for a moment before slowly turning his hand over and lifting her fingers to rest on his. Gently rubbing his thumb across them, he begins to talk.

She listens enraptured as his story begins, gradually coalescing between occasional frothy gulps into a heart-breakingly honest retelling of his past. Each considered phrase—blunt, sad, amusing—is delivered in the rich timbre of his gentle baritone in a way that makes her wonder how she ever found it harsh or grating.

He describes his fascination with the river as a child, his meticulous exploration of its litter-strewn banks, collecting objects of interest, performing his earliest transfigurations, making 'potions' from jars of muddy water and weeds, and digging out secluded nooks from which to watch life pass by, to read or simply to daydream. Despite being an only child, he had never felt particularly lonely in his earliest years, and had also been blissfully unaware of his poverty . . . until school began.

The Muggle primary school that he had attended was a distance away as his mother had recognised both his intelligence and advanced magical abilities from an early age and wanted him to have a good education. Unfortunately that was also where he'd realised just how different he was to the other children. He had no interest in boisterous games and physical contests, preferring to remain in the classroom reading or helping the teacher to prepare for lessons.

Hermione listens with despair as he speaks in philosophical terms about his failure to be accepted, acknowledging that he really had no clue how to fit in. But he does speak of occasional friendships—particularly that with Lily Evans. Hermione notes how he spends a considerable amount of time looking at their hands as he recounts those events. Despite being unsure of the significance, she remains quiet, not wanting to interrupt the flow. He is a surprisingly gifted story-teller and she finds herself hanging off every word, knowing that each is delivered with great care and consideration, his face thoughtful, his hands animated whilst continuing to hold hers.

And it is only when he reaches the point in his retelling where he is about to leave home for Hogwarts that he stops and gazes at her hard.

"We haven't ordered any food."

She shakes her head quickly to indicate that she doesn't care. He looks down at their empty glasses as though only just seeing them for the first time.

"I must apologise."

"No. Don't." She grips his hand tighter. "I loved it . . . I wanted to know."

He sighs, looking at her with that same uncertainty before releasing her hand.

"We'll get it to take away."

"Take away? Where? Hogwarts?" she asks, frowning in disappointment.

The ghost of a smirk crosses his lips. "I was thinking of my place."

 _His place?_ The irony, of course, is that they already live together—their quarters are only a matter of metres apart. But the thought of going back to 'his place' suddenly makes her feel inexplicably giddy. It might be the pint that she has drunk on an empty stomach, or the fact that she is over-tired after another long day of teaching, but she suspects it is more the idea that he wants to take her there—to show her. And of course _what_ he has to show her is even more enticing.

She smiles and leaps up from the seat. "What are we waiting for?"


	16. Home and Away

They take the walkway by the river. The visage could never be described as picturesque but it is certainly mysterious—dark and enigmatic—not unlike the man whose arm she now takes as they walk, who seems to naturally position himself to protect her from potential threat, and who pretends to turn a blind eye as she tears a tiny hole in the steaming package held to his stomach and pilfers her first chip in what feels like a lifetime.

"These are so bloody . . . ohhhh." Her intended compliment rapidly deteriorates into orgasmic groaning as the delicious contrast of crunch and creaminess makes her melt.

He chuckles softly as she quickly reaches for another.

"Severus, these are fantastic . . . seriously . . . the best," she gushes thickly before suddenly catching herself. Swallowing, she looks up at his shadowed profile. He doesn't seem to have noticed. "Do you mind . . . if I call you Severus?"

"Of course not."

She smiles and pulls out another chip. "And I presume you won't mind if I feed you?"

"That depends."

"On what?" She dangles the chip in front of his lips.

"On whether you mind if I eat you."

Suddenly he lunges forward and grabs both the chip and her fingers in his mouth.

She shrieks and snatches her hand away.

"And here I was thinking you were a man with the most impeccable manners," she cries in mock indignation.

"Hardly." He snorts. "But I do have extremely . . . refined . . . tastes."

And the sibilance of that final word as it drifts through his teeth is enough to have her tingling with anticipation.

"Really?" she lingers over the word herself, sliding her fingers back into the hole to retrieve another chip before bringing it to his mouth. "And do you happen to have a particular . . . favourite?"

He stops. His boots crunch on the path as he turns to appraise her, the moon sparkling like a star in the deep pools of his eyes. "I believe I have found a new one."

Her breath catches as he proceeds to engulf her thumb and index finger with his lips, his hot tongue scooping the potato from between them before he carefully draws back, allowing them to pop free. He swallows as her trembling hand falls to his chest.

"Please warn me before you do that again," she murmurs softly.

"Why?"

"Because I need to at least appear to be able to resist you."

He continues to penetrate her with that sultry gaze before finally releasing her with a lift of his chin.

"Perhaps you should come in and show me just how well you . . . resist."

Turning around, she sees that they are across the road from a row of houses. She is grateful as her legs are already feeling weak from the promise of more Snape—in fact, she is now very hopeful of having a good deal too much Snape by the evening's end.

He guides her to the last house in the row and, with a flick of his hand, unlocks the door and ushers her inside. They enter a tiny living room which instantly flares with warmth as he tosses flames into the lamps and a fire into the grate.

She sees books. Walls of them. Their worn spines speak of multitudinous readings, a thought sufficient to capture her, even beyond the usual enticement, and it is all she can do to tear her eyes away to face him.

"Perhaps we should eat first?" He nods to the wrapped package in his hands.

"First?" She looks up at him innocently.

"Yes before . . . anything else."

"I think perhaps we should do 'anything else' first." She approaches him.

"Am I to presume that this is your most valiant attempt at 'resistance'?" A sexy smirk hitches the corner of his lip.

"Yes . . . how do you like it?" She places both hands on his chest.

His eyelids sink a little as he focuses on her face, upturned and unconvincingly innocent, flushed in anticipation.

"I happen to believe that it's perfect." He tosses the package aside and grasps her fine chin in one hand. "And I happen to also believe that of you."

Her eyes fall closed. It is impossible to quantify the magnitude of emotions that inundate her. She had all but given up on this—considered herself irreparably damaged, rotten, ghoulish . . . steeped in such brutal ugliness that she was completely beyond love . . . or even the remotest genuine attraction.

And then there's the fact that the sentiment represents such a glaring contrast to the acerbic, hateful words that he had thrown at her years before.

She dearly hopes this revelation isn't driven by pity, as the way the words swell inside her drives her to a place that she knows she is going to have difficulty returning from . . . unbroken.

"I'm still far from better," she murmurs, shaking her head apologetically. "There are so many parts of me that are too sensitive to touch."

"I'm confident that I can find a . . . work around." His silken voice manages to slip through her misgivings, drawing a watery smile.

"I really hoped you'd say that."

By way of response, he leads her by the hand upstairs, their clothes shedding in soft puddles as he deals swift, elegant incantations over them until they crawl naked onto the bed together.

He lies beside her, gazing intently into her eyes before taking her hand and placing his wrist inside it, allowing her to guide him. She immediately draws him close, curling his fingers around her small breast as she leans in to kiss him, skimming her own hand over the contours of his jaw as it rolls delicately beneath her fingertips with the rhythm of his soft, passionate lips.

She notices then that it matches the sensation at her breast—the strong fingers beneath her own dealing caresses of such gentle restraint over the throbbing bud of her nipple that it leaves her more breathless than if he'd been harsh or brutal.

But she has no such control. With a moan, she delves her fingers into his hair, fisting it in her desperation to pull him closer, forcing his mouth open as her tongue plunges deeply. She can barely contain herself . . . after so many years of having to. Her entire body cries out to be fucked . . . and fucked properly . . . not therapeutically.

 _But are they, in fact, one and the same?_

Certainly, she had been floating on a giddy cloud of post-orgasmic bliss ever since he made her come the previous evening. And that hadn't been gentle—she had come so hard that she could still feel the residual strain in her pussy . . . which might explain the fierce intensity of her current need.

In fact, all of their recent exchanges had felt cathartic—surprisingly soothing—healing, as though she was gradually being drawn back into her womanhood—her personhood—becoming part of the world again.

Despite that understanding, she still finds herself desperately wanting him to fuck her.

"Please, Severus," she whimpers against his lips. "I need you . . ."

Mercifully, he requires no further explanation.

"Roll over."

Obediently, she releases him and rolls away . . . waiting.

She feels his gradual approach, the seeping warmth of his body, spreading until it radiates along her entire length despite the absence of contact.

Then he does touch her—only barely—slithering one lean arm through the gap between her neck and the pillow, curling it around so that he touches her breast, but little else. Lifting her other hand, he props it on his hip, sliding his arm under her own to gently slip a digit between her labia. Sighing, she rolls her head back and finds that he is right there, and that she can kiss him as he slowly and deliciously works her most sensitive nerve bundles—nipple and clitoris—the tight triggers igniting a flood of pleasure that engulfs her whole body, dragging a ragged groan from her throat.

"You like that, do you?" The sexy purr against her lips makes her shiver with lust and her fingers claw into his buttocks until he flexes forward, the warmth of his cock brushing gently against her sensitized buttocks, making her gasp.

As his fingers firm between her lips, delving deeper, she naturally spreads her legs, allowing him to access her most intimate opening without hesitation—something she wouldn't even allow herself only days before. He continues to roll and tug at her nipple until she moans and writhes in ecstasy, a merciful relief from the agony to which she has also become sadly accustomed.

Reaching back, she grasps the familiar weight of his cock.

"I want this beautiful thing inside me," she murmurs as she gently squeezes him, simultaneously prodding her tongue into his mouth.

He draws back, the solemn lines of his face firming as he appraises her. "Are you certain?"

Whilst this will be his first time inside her fully erect, she is more than ready—she can both feel and hear the extent of her arousal as his fingers continue their languorous journey into and out of her.

"I might be ill but I'm not mad." She regards him seriously, continuing to finger his member. "I don't know a woman alive who would turn this down."

He snorts gently. "And what would they consider of the person to whom it is attached?"

Her lips curl into a shy smile. "They would consider him quite the same . . . commanding, terrifying, awe-inspiring . . . and requiring a period of . . . adjustment."

He chuckles this time, a ripple of warmth that nestles inside her, filling her, threatening to take permanent hold. And she doesn't even need to interrogate the feeling . . . it's obvious . . . she is falling for him. She knows it with absolute certainty. And just in case there was any part of her that wasn't sure, he now dips his head, placing a chaste kiss upon her lips as he presses his firm head into her pussy from behind . . . and she swoons.

Eyes falling closed, her lips part, fluttering open a fraction further with each fresh sensation. But his incursion is so gradual, receding and encroaching in tiny increments that seem to follow each hitch of her breath, every flexion of her brow, that she suspects he is watching her intently, using her expressions as his guide.

Her fingers curl into his buttocks as he gradually eases his way inside, stretching her like nothing she's ever taken before, filling her until she wonders just how much more he has to give. But then he halts, allowing her that 'period of adjustment,' just a few moments of complete fullness before he withdraws a fraction, the friction igniting her anew before thrusting home.

"Unnhhhh," she moans, clutching at the hand on her breast that continues to stroke and squeeze, driving pulses of sensation into her core from above as well as below, until she feels deliciously, deliriously overwhelmed. She is suddenly thankful for the fact that she is lying down, having no doubt that she would have collapsed by now—been sucked into the depths of this swirling sensorial haze, as she had with the ministrations of his fingers and tongue the previous evening.

She now lies prone and willingly compliant, like an instrument—a cello and he the cellist—his cock the bow that weaves rhythmically in and out, drawing a symphony of breathy groans from the resonance chamber of her chest. And still he barely touches her, just those few contact points that she can tolerate . . . but each totally captivating and utterly exquisite.

When this had all begun—their hostile exchange in the Forbidden Forest that had ended in her pleading with him to be gentle—she had wondered if had been a grave mistake to allow him so close. But since then he had been gentle in every way—physically, psychologically, emotionally—a complete gentleman.

Even his fucking in this moment is gentlemanly—tender and considerate. But there is an undeniable element of restraint to his movements—a subdued potency that excites her, making her both hopeful and fearful that he will unleash himself on her. And his magnificent cock could never be described in such polite terms, it is too searingly substantial to be rendered benign, and that's what makes this current understated performance so impressive. He could easily decimate her and yet he glides in and out with a languid grace, playing her so beautifully that she simply opens herself to him, inviting and accepting all that he has to give.

Lifting a hand, she cups his face, pulling him close before nuzzling against his cheek.

"Where do you need it?" His voice and jaw are tight—she senses that he is holding back . . . waiting . . . for her.

But she is determined for this not to be about her—her illness, her problem, her deficits. She wants him to fuck her because he wants it—just as much as she does.

"Please just do it . . . inside me."

His thrusting slows. "Are you taking any—"

She twists her head around, kissing away his words. "And do it hard," she growls against his lips.

He pauses, cheek resting against hers for a long moment before he seems to make up his mind. Lacing the fingers of one hand into hers, protectively curling his palm over her knuckles, he slides back to give himself greater leverage.

And then things escalate.

Beginning as a deepening of each stroke, his hips pull back, plunging home with increasing power until he is slamming into her cervix in a manner that both stuns and ignites her. The visceral grunts that burst from her lips with each deep contact are so raw and that they turn her on even more, fuelling her own hips to thrust back to meet him.

His baritone eases out in a mounting breathy rhythm that matches the speed of his thrusts, and she tightens her grip on his hand, letting him know that she is still with him despite the tremulous mewling that has now commandeered her voice box.

His cock ploughs into her, reaming her pussy like it hasn't been plundered in years . . . or ever for that matter—a blazing barrel of pleasure that is so complete it doesn't even warn of her impending orgasm until the moment is upon her, eclipsing anything she has ever known.

She cries out, her body quaking uncontrollably as it is gripped by the magnitude of her release. Her violent contractions shudder around his solid shaft as it continues to drive into her, the exquisite stimulation forcing an eruption of juice from her convulsing passages, and a stream of hot tears from her eyes.

The tears continue as she feels him gather behind her before his warm breath buffets her shoulder, her name upon it as he comes. The massive girth of his cock and the sensitivity of her tunnel means she can feel every delicious surge of him inside her. Hips bucking forward with each release, she senses him lathering her deepest recesses with his seed and instantly feels the magic of it working on her.

They lay together for a few blissful moments, breathing as one. But as he tenses, ready to withdraw, she instantly releases his hand, digging her fingers into the back of his thigh to hold him there.

"Stay," she whispers. "Just . . . please . . . stay."


	17. Gain and Loss

Hermione spies his gracefully crossed legs and detects the elegant sway of his black boots but is gifted nothing more with Hagrid's bulky presence obscuring her view. After arriving late at the staff meeting, she'd had to take a chair on the opposite side of the room, and now that tantalising slice of him captivates her, making her wish for the rest. With some difficulty, she trains her eyes to the front of the room, but despite the gravity of Minerva's withered features, the brittle edge to her brogue, and her increasingly officious instructions about new resourcing protocols and productivity goals, Hermione's wayward mind instantly slips into replaying the events of the previous evening—as it had already done with disconcerting regularity throughout the day . . . even during her classes.

This time, with the main protagonist present, black toe straining upward with the mention of 'potion quotas,' her reminiscence takes on a whole new level of reality. She can actually feel him—the delicious constellation of sensations as he'd methodically and comprehensively fucked her. The combination of his cock, hands and lips lingers delectably in her mind's eye until she catches herself rocking, her pelvis grinding rhythmically against her chair. Instantly she crosses both arms and legs, frowning and nodding thoughtfully in an attempt to demonstrate her focus on the matter at hand.

But it is to no avail. Moments later she is back in his bedroom again, feeling his cock snugly embedded inside her. He'd remained there for a long time—after she'd begged him to stay—and in the absence of being able to embrace him properly, it had been the reassurance she'd needed. In fact, it had brought her such comfort that she'd actually fallen asleep, head nestled under his chin, fingers interlocked with his.

Her gaze now creeps back to the poised elegance of this crossed legs, imagining them bare again, remembering the sight of his sockless feet crossed on the footstool as he'd sat before the fire with her, eating and chatting.

Somehow he'd managed to slip away while she'd been sleeping, magically reheated their abandoned dinner and served it up on plates downstairs, before returning to awaken her with a series of the most rose-petal soft kisses that she had actually dreamed that her face was buried in a dewy bouquet. And she'd woken sleepily to his easy smile—as though he'd always been capable of such but had rarely found a particular reason to do so.

She'd accompanied him downstairs, retrieving her dress along the way before slipping it over her head with little concern for underwear. Adorned only in black trousers and a white shirt, the latter casually open at the neck, he'd almost seemed like a different person as he'd reclined in a worn armchair, plate on his lap, fingers clamping a piece of battered fish as he consumed it in considered bites between mouthfuls of wine and further stories about his past.

Hermione had taken the chair alongside him, equally threadbare but surprisingly comfortable, and occupied the same footstool, her bare toes occasionally brushing against his between delectable mouthfuls, which had miraculously lost nothing in flavour or texture since being dumped in favour of the best fuck of her life.

Her wine had also disappeared at a rate of knots as she'd talked and listened and laughed, drifting along on the surprisingly loquacious stream of words that tripped from his oil-slicked lips. Then she'd been surprised by his own thoughtful line of questioning . . . allowing herself to indulge in some rare candour—drawn out by the genuine interest and lack of judgement in his eyes.

At one point in her retelling of the Obliviation of her parents, he'd even reached over and held her hand, squeezing it gently. The action had left tears shimmering on her eyelashes but she'd done nothing to conceal them. After all, he'd already shared so much of himself, including elements of his own troubled past, that she felt she at least owed him the honesty of her emotions.

But that's when he'd asked her, out of the blue, why she'd spent all of those months as a teenager by his bedside. The question had taken her off guard and she'd sat for a few moments, considering how much she should tell him.

Suddenly, the closeness that she had felt to him back in the hospital wing of Hogwarts—and was feeling as she held his hand right now—seemed to mesh and meld and, combined with the excellent wine and mind-blowing sex, had caused her to want to share more than she might otherwise.

She'd told him of her post-war loneliness having returned to Hogwarts without her friends, her desire to be needed, and admitted that she had been drawn to his obvious need for her.

"But you do realise that I was unaware it was you?" He'd released her hand then, making her suddenly desperate to explain herself.

"Yes . . . of course but . . . whomever you thought I was—you were looking to me for comfort. And I found that I could provide it."

He'd stared at her then, the light from the fire licking into his eyes. "Comfort?"

"Yes." She'd twisted her napkin around her fist.

"What form did this 'comfort' take?" His delivery held a subtle tension, the words slipping out through barely parted lips.

"A variety . . ." She'd swallowed with the admission, ". . . of forms."

He'd considered her for a long moment then, before suddenly twisting his head to consult the mantel clock.

"We must return."

He'd risen and rapidly cleared their plates, glasses and bottle with a wave of his hand.

Oh, I thought—"

He'd looked down at her.

"We're not staying?"

Buttoning up his shirt, he'd crossed the room. "No. Our absence will be noted."

"Does that matter?" She'd stood, pulling the front of her dress together in a sudden wave of self-consciousness.

"Yes."

She'd not fully understood his concern but proceeded to mount the stairs, tidying and clothing herself in preparation for the return trip.

At the door he'd turned to her, pale fingers hovering over the handle. "We don't need the opinions of others muddying the waters."

 _Muddying the waters? Was he referring to their relationship? And was the dynamic so fragile that it couldn't withstand the usual grind of the Hogwarts rumour mill?_

Part of her had been grateful—it was a relief that he seemed to care. But at the same time, she'd not been able to avoid the finger of doubt that had prodded her relentlessly as they'd returned in near silence. And it had continued to drill. Even when he'd run his own fingers down her cheek, brushing his lips against her forehead as they'd stood outside the door to her room. She'd hoped he would stay—or that he'd invite her to his. But instead he'd inclined his head, black eyes locked upon her, before suddenly turning and sweeping away.

It had been unreasonable of her to expect more. The evening had been utterly enchanting and he'd given so much of himself already. But she'd watched him out of the corner of her eye until he'd completely disappeared, feeling utterly bereft.

Hermione snaps back to reality with the burst of disgruntled muttering that signifies the end of the meeting. She feels herself willing him over; she needs to talk.

But Minerva quickly approaches, and she watches him sidle past, eyes momentarily flickering to hers before exiting.

"Hermione." The older woman greets her. "I just wanted to inquire how you are faring. You really are looking so well these days—everyone has commented upon it."

"Oh, really?" Hermione can't help recalling Severus' 'opinions of others' comment.

"Yes, surely you realise it yourself?" Professor McGonagall's lips cinch into an inquiring smile.

"Of course . . . I just didn't realise that it was a topic of such interest."

Minerva's face softens. "This is Hogwarts, Hermione. Not a lot happens here . . . not anymore. And anything that does is of keen interest to all. But we do want what's best for you, dear. I hope you understand that."

Hermione concedes with a small smile. "Yes . . . and I am extremely grateful."

"May I inquire . . ." Minerva lowers her voice, straining forward slightly despite the fact that the two remaining staff are standing some distance away. "Is it Professor Snape's . . . supplement . . . that has been assisting your recovery?"

"I believe it to be a combination of factors," Hermione answers quickly, suddenly finding a crack in the stone floor by her feet too fascinating to ignore. "But certainly the Professor has been generous with his time. I really do owe him a great deal."

"As he owes you."

"What do you mean?" Hermione's eyes snap up to regard her.

"Well . . . you did spend many months assisting his recovery all those years ago. I would consider it the least he could do."

Hermione blinks. "Did you tell him that?"

Minerva retreats a fraction, abrupt and birdlike. "I may have suggested it, but that would hardly have inspired his actions. He is not one to take instruction as you may have noticed."

Hermione actually had noticed. And he'd been more than willing to take instruction . . . when she had been willing to do the same. And whilst she was aware that the two Professors had had a difficult past, she suddenly feels quite protective over him.

"I have also been considerably buoyed by my time with the students." Hermione makes an effort to direct the conversation away from him.

"Ah yes," Minerva smiles. "I have heard particularly glowing reports from a young lady in your second year class—Miss Langford?"

Hermione nods, a smile ticking up the corners of her mouth. "She has been one of the most supportive—right from the beginning. She's just so . . ."

"Granger-esque?"

"I certainly hope not," Hermione responds quickly. ". . . It's not an easy road to travel." Her smile suddenly drops away.

Minerva touches her hand. And for the first time she doesn't consider pulling away. "I know this is still difficult, Hermione. I didn't mean to suggest that you were suddenly better. I just want to be able to support you. We all do. Even the children."

Hermione nods gratefully, but Minerva's firm grasp brings her no comfort. It is Severus she wants. And now she leaves. To find him.

* * *

He stands in his laboratory, door open—clearly expecting her. It is only when she approaches that she notices he is reading.

"Severus?"

"What did she want?" He continues to peruse the book. "A blow by blow account?"

"Sorry?"

His eyes briefly rise to hers before he huffs and flicks over the page.

"No, she didn't." Hermione frowns, folding her arms across her chest. "And I would hardly have considered it prudent to reveal such a thing."

"It's not as though she hasn't enough to be getting on with," he growls, "without compulsively interfering in the lives of others."

Hermione takes a step closer. "I don't pretend to understand what has happened between the two of you. But certainly the way you described her when you first arrived at Hogwarts, it seemed that she was one of your greatest supports."

He snorts but continues to stare down at the pages.

"She was only inquiring after me."

"And I received no mention?"

"She may have—"

"You asked if it 'mattered' that people placed us together." He snaps the book shut to round on her. "As things stand, you are currently a young woman, an ex-student, who has come to Hogwarts, obviously exceedingly unwell, looking for assistance."

Hermione shakes her head at the anger in his eyes. "I don't understand."

"And I am a man—your past Professor, currently taking advantage of my ill and desperate ex-student, to satisfy my own needs.

"But you're not . . ." Hermione stares at him.

"Aren't I?" He raises an expressive eyebrow, the question hanging between them.

"I really don't understand. Is this about Professor McGonagall or is this about you?"

"She should never have let you near me," he grinds out, suddenly looking away.

"What do you mean?"

He doesn't respond.

"Severus?" She raises her voice as she moves around in front of him.

"I was not myself . . . I didn't know what I was doing."

Hermione reaches out to touch him but he steps out of her way, spinning around and returning the book to its shelf.

"We need to establish whether I am the only one who is able to heal you."

Hermione is surprised at the edge of desperation to his voice.

"Why? What do you think—?" she begins.

"It doesn't matter what I 'think', it matters what can be proven—what I can provide evidence for." Each word is enunciated as though she is dense.

She reluctantly withdraws her hand from where it was hovering in the hope of touching him.

"Do you have anyone in mind?" she asks quietly.

He crosses his arms. "Do you?"

"Jacob?"

"No. He's a Muggle. Unlikely to be effective."

"Then I have no one else." She looks away, embarrassed. "No one that I would wish to ask for such a thing."

Severus sighs heavily. "I may have someone."

"Do I know them?"

"Yes . . . His name is Lucius Malfoy."

Her face drops. "Not Draco?"

"No, he's married."

"So is Lucius."

"Yes, but that actually means something to Draco."

Hermione stares at the ground in silence before finally raising her eyes, brimming with tears. "I would appreciate . . . if you could arrange it."

Severus delivers a single nod.

Turning, she quietly leaves the room.

Severus wandlessly closes the door, then collapses, face in his hands.


	18. Thunder and Lightning

_What had happened?_

Hermione sits on the edge of her small bed, hands balled into tight fists, letting her silent tears fall. She had noticed the shift in him. It hadn't even been particularly subtle. But for some reason she'd chosen to ignore it, putting it down to her own paranoia . . . they'd had such a wonderful time together after all—at least that's what she'd thought.

And now this. Anger, hurt, blame, rejection. It was just the same as before—all those years ago. And sadly she is also the same—shocked, bereft . . . nursing the same lump of pain in her chest.

She'd not even had an opportunity to explain herself . . . on either occasion. His instant reaction was to shut out, to push away, and it happened so quickly that she was left spinning in the dust.

She had blamed herself in the past—accepted that she perhaps hadn't handled things as well as she should have, as she would have wanted to if she hadn't been so lonely and guilt-ridden.

But this time she'd done nothing wrong. And whilst he hadn't actually accused her of anything, the insinuation, the crude introduction of another man . . . Lucius Malfoy for Merlin's sake . . . after everything they'd shared. It was so bloody insensitive.

Perhaps she was to blame after all. She'd let it happen. She'd let Severus Snape in—again—despite her reservations, despite the fact that she knew how brutally unforgiving he could be. She wished she could say that she'd made a mistake, but she couldn't . . . and that makes her cry even harder. He had been everything she'd wanted—everything she'd asked of him . . . sweet and gentle, kind and . . . loving.

And for him to suddenly tear it asunder in mere moments was so damned unfair.

And then there was Lucius Malfoy. She had no idea of how and when the liaison would happen, what the outcome would be, and what it would mean for their relationship . . . c _ould there still be a future together?_

Hermione releases a shuddering breath and wipes her hands over her face. It was his call now. She wouldn't be begging to see him again. He would have to come to her.

* * *

He doesn't.

She sees him many times . . . and he sees her . . . but he always maintains his distance—not ignoring her so much as simply watching, watchful, his expression a confusing blend of resolution and regret that drives a lump into her throat, such that she has to stop taking her meals in the Great Hall.

Alone in her vaguely room-like cupboard she can feel herself regressing, closing down once again. The keenness of her senses seems to sharpen each day that she is away from him, the world gradually looming larger and more fearful, and she diminishing—lapsing into a smaller and more insignificant being. The entire experience is excruciating. As though she is slowly dying of thirst . . . when the cure, the life-giving wellspring, is mere metres away.

And it is not even the physical relapse that concerns her most, it is the rapid corrosion of the psychological and emotional fortitude that she had managed to craft over the past weeks. What had seemed so strong, she now realises was hopelessly fragile and despairingly temporary.

In the past she would have simply succumbed to this sad acceptance . . . seeing it as just another part of her dismal lot. But this time, with him so close and yet so far, there is too much hurt and anger. She can't pretend. She is utterly furious with him. He knows her circumstances better than anyone and yet has chosen to treat her like this.

Between classes, she finds herself with too much time alone . . . time to ruminate, to seethe, to haul up her bitter walls, such that when she finally wakes after another dismal sleep to find a scrap of parchment shoved under her door, adorned with the familiar strokes from his hand, she storms over and snatches it up.

 _Hermione,_

 _Lucius will be in my chambers this evening at 8pm._

 _I trust you will be able to attend._

 _I'm sorry._

 _Severus._

* * *

 _He's sorry?_

She can barely hold it together. _He's fucking sorry?_

She screws up the parchment and hurls it against the wall.

Breathing heavily, she combs both hands through her hair as she begins pacing the room.

 _Lucius Malfoy_.

She is now at the point of such utter desperation that she actually finds herself looking forward to engaging with him—a man she'd hoped never to see again in her life but one whom might just be able to help her . . . or at least answer the question of whether she can afford some degree of hope . . . or if she is simply destined to rot away in a cupboard for the rest of her life.

She stops pacing and stares at the floor. At least things couldn't get worse—he absolutely couldn't make things worse. And that thought makes her feel a bit better.

With a renewed sense of resolve, Hermione sets about making a pot of tea. Her wand could do it just as easily but the deliberate, methodical process soothes her. And as she cradles her grandmother's cup in her hands, her mind drifts back to her family and the sacrifices that they made for her—to give her all of the wonderful opportunities that she has had. She decides then that she at least owes it to them to try—to do her best to survive.

Taking a sip, she clenches her jaw in determination. She is going to make the most of this opportunity—even if it does involve a disturbingly sticky encounter with Lucius Malfoy.

* * *

The galloping rhythm of her heart thuds in her ears. It is the last class of the day and only a few hours remain until she will be able to deduce more about the puzzle of her predicament. Despite her distraction, she notices that Sophia is unusually quiet. Sitting at the back of the class, the dark-haired girl is nearly lost in the shadows but Hermione senses her intense blue gaze firmly locked upon her. It is not the first time that she has detected a quietness in the girl but, on this occasion, her withdrawal it is particularly noticeable.

As she dismisses the rest of the class, Hermione stands and beckons to Sophia who approaches without any of the usual self-assurance that she has become accustomed to.

"Is everything alright?" Hermione asks as the door closes behind the last student. "You seem rather quiet today."

"Yes . . . quite alright." Sophia avoids her gaze.

"You can talk to me. I do understand what it's like to be a student here." Hermione reaches out and touches her gently on shoulder. "Are you worried about school work? You're not being bullied, are you?"

"No." Sophia shakes her head. "Nothing like that."

"What is it, then? Is it your family? Are you homesick?"

Sophia's eyes suddenly rush up to meet hers.

"You know that there are holidays coming up, don't you?" Hermione smiles encouragingly. "It won't be long before you see them again."

"Yes, it will," Sophia answers despondently. "My family aren't . . . available. I'll be staying here."

"Oh . . . well, so am I," Hermione responds brightly. "We could keep each other company—do something fun together. You wanted to show me something?"

Sophia regards her with anguish. "It's too late . . . Almost."

Hermione is struck by the despair in her voice.

"Tomorrow." She leans toward the girl. "I'll come with you tomorrow."

The girl's full lips quiver almost imperceptibly. "It must be in the morning."

"Absolutely. I will meet you at the main entrance at 10am."

Suddenly Sophia rushes forward and throws her arms around Hermione in a fierce hug that makes her body cry out in shock but that she finds she equally desperately needs, returning the hug with vigour.

The young girl trembles in her arms and it is all Hermione can do to stop herself from welling up again, such is the fragility of her current state.

Eventually Sophia pulls away, wiping her tear-streaked face. "I'll see you . . . tomorrow," she rasps before picking up her bag and striding quickly from the room.

* * *

"Hermione." Minerva stands as Hermione enters the Headmistress' office. "I was about to make my way down to the Great Hall for dinner. Would you care to join me?"

Hermione, shakes her head. "No, thank you. I just wanted to check something, if I may?"

"Of course." The older woman gestures to a seat opposite her desk before resuming her own.

"How can I help you?"

"Sophia Langford."

Minerva blinks. "Yes?"

"She told me that she is staying here during the holidays. I just wanted to find out why she is unable to return home?" Hermione perches on the edge of her seat, the day's discomfort settling into her limbs.

"Well." Minerva scans her desk as though looking for something before suddenly clasping her hands together. "There is little I can tell you."

"What do you mean?"

"Miss Langford . . ." Minerva raises her interlocked fingers slightly, ". . . arrived not long before the start of the school year with only a letter . . . from her grandparents . . . stating that she would not be returning home for the holidays."

"Arrived?" Hermione frowns. "What about her first year? Didn't she complete it here at Hogwarts?"

Minerva's lips press together in what Hermione recognises as discomfort. "No . . . I believe she was home-schooled in her first year . . . by her grandparents."

"Home-schooled? For the entire first year curriculum?" Hermione leans forward on her seat. "Who are her grandparents?"

"Uh . . . I've not met them. I'm not entirely sure of their names." Minerva quickly rises. "Now, I am getting rather peckish so if that is all you wanted to know?"

Hermione remains seated. "Why would a student be accepted into Hogwarts without a thorough investigation of their background? Especially one with such an unusual point of entry into the school?"

Minerva sighs as she leans on the corner of the desk. "If you haven't noticed, Hermione, times have changed since you were at Hogwarts. The war is over. There is no longer a reason for suspicion and interrogation. We tend to take people on face value."

"Are you even able to contact her family? What if there is an emergency?" Hermione's voice rises.

Minerva removes her glasses and begins polishing them furiously. "I imagine Miss Langford would know of her family's whereabouts. She could owl them if required."

"And what if it were an emergency involving Sophia?" Hermione rises angrily from her chair. "Why aren't basic records being kept of our students' details?"

"Most of them do provide such information," Minerva snaps. "But there are some who don't. And we can't . . . afford . . . to turn any away."

Hermione glares at her for a long moment. "So this is a matter of funding? You're compromising the safety of students to secure enrolments?"

"I would hardly call a less-than-thorough background screening a breach of student safety."

"I would!"

"And would you reject anyone who wasn't able to provide a thorough explanation for their circumstances?" Minerva replaces her glasses to glare at Hermione.

"Of course."

"And would you say the same about teaching staff who are unable to explain their circumstances, who arrive under a cloud of suspicion, and who are simply hopeful for an opportunity to be accepted?"

Hermione's breath catches. "That is not the same thing."

"Isn't it?"

* * *

By the time Hermione fronts up to Severus' door, she is filled with a simmering indignant rage that she can barely see though. It is hardly desirable preparation for such an occasion but she can do little about it.

Taking a deep breath and huffing it out loudly, she knocks.

Severus opens the door, his eyes instantly roaming over her new dress in a way that she finds distinctly insulting considering the circumstances.

"Miss Granger." He nods in welcome.

" _Professor_ Granger if you don't mind," she snaps before pushing past.

She stops. Lucius Malfoy is already seated by the fire, wine glass balanced in his fingertips, a smirk on his lips.

She arranges her face into what she hopes doesn't look like a snarl—she is genuinely grateful to him after all. "Mr Malfoy."

He immediately stands and proffers his hand. " _Professor_ Granger, such a pleasure to see you again."

She takes it and he smoothly bows, hair falling in a silky white curtain, before placing a light kiss upon her knuckles. She feels herself relax a little. There's no doubt about it, he's pretty slick. And without the usual cold arrogance, he might actually be quite pleasant.

"Can I get you a drink?" he asks. "This wine is excellent."

"Oh yes, that would be lovely."

"Severus?" Lucius looks over her shoulder.

Hermione turns to see Severus' jaw firm, clearly annoyed. "I have nothing other than excellent wine in my cabinet," he states drily before addressing Hermione. "I would be pleased to pour you a glass."

His black eyes flicker to Lucius for a moment before he turns stiffly, striding over to a nearby drinks cabinet.

 _Well. This is going to be fun!_

There is obviously considerable tension between the two men already, so clearly this 'arrangement' isn't to everyone's liking. But, to be honest, she feels little sympathy for Severus . . . he'd been a total bastard. She would be happy for him to receive a dose of his own medicine.

"Now sit down and tell me all about yourself." Lucius sweeps his hand graciously toward the couch and relocates himself on the cushion beside her.

When Severus returns with her drink, she notices the distinct narrowing of his eyes as he sums up the new seating arrangements, Lucius' arm slung casually across the top of the couch behind her shoulders. With a low growl that turns into an unconvincing throat-clearing, he sinks down into the chair opposite.

Lucius ignores him, leaning in closer. "Severus tells me that you are the new Professor of Muggle studies. How is that going?"

"Oh it's . . . fine." She hardly thinks that he's interested but this all needs to start somewhere. "Everyone has been very supportive."

Lucius nods, his blue eyes disconcertingly intense as they gaze into hers. "And he also tells me that you are somewhat . . . ill."

Hermione blinks at the topic change. "Yes . . . I . . . you can probably tell . . . I'm suffering from a condition . . . of some sort."

"Not at all." He lifts a hand and trails his fingers lightly down her cheek. "You look even more radiant than what I remember. Perhaps it was the circumstances . . . they weren't the best of times."

"No." She gasps as his fingers open to slide down her neck.

"Perhaps it would be prudent to discuss what is to occur this evening," Severus interrupts.

Hermione tears her eyes away from Lucius to consider the dark wizard—shoulders tense, cheeks flushed, black gaze burning into the two of them . . . _what did he intend to happen?_

"Perhaps the young lady can tell us what is to occur?" Lucius' eyes wander over her cleavage which is heaving noticeably with his attention.

Lucius is right. It's her body. She should be the one to decide.

"I need you to come on me."

Lucius' eyebrows shoot up. Severus chokes.

"On my stomach."

"That's quite . . . specific."

"Yes . . . can you do it?"

Severus jumps up. "I hardly think this requires some sort of ejaculatory prowess. It's coming, not splitting the atom. And I tend to consider that this could be more easily achieved by rapid transfer between two locations . . . not necessarily direct application."

"I disagree," Hermione states.

"So do I." Lucius regards him with disdain.

Severus' hands clench by his sides and Hermione wonders who he is planning to hex first.

But when a few moments pass and nothing more happens than the distinct crack of his jaw, she turns to Lucius.

"Should we get on with it, then?"

"Why not?" Lucius agrees. "In the bedroom?"

"You'll do it here," Severus growls.

They both regard him. Hermione has never seen him so furious, mouth clamped and twisted, the veins in his temples throbbing. She struggles to understand how he plans to cope with what is about to happen—unless he intends to leave. But this was entirely his idea. He was going to have to put up with it.

"Fine." She tosses the word over her shoulder before slithering down to crouch before Lucius.

"What are you doing?" Severus' low murmur comes from behind her.

"What does it look like?" She quickly undoes Lucius' trousers and slips her hand inside. He instantly moans and lifts his backside off the couch. "I might need a bit more lubrication first." She reaches for her glass with the other hand and take a deep gulp.

Before she can even remove it from her lips, she is yanked up by her wrist. The glass falls to the floor, smashing and spilling wine everywhere.

"That is not . . . necessary," Severus spits the words out between clenched teeth.

His grip is so tight, she feels her bones straining but she won't give him anything. Not after what he has done to her. "I'll decide what's necessary," she snaps bitterly. "Now, get your hands off me."

He blinks and she sees the anger giving away to something else—hurt, regret, sorrow . . . whatever it is, she has to look away. "Let me go," she repeats in a whisper.

He does.

Clenching and unclenching her fist in attempt to return the blood supply to her hand, she reaches out to Lucius. "We're using the bedroom."

He looks warily at Severus before deciding that there is no fight left in him. Together they leave, closing the bedroom door behind them.


	19. Rise and Fall

A/N: Trying to get a few quick chapters up over the Easter break. Hope you enjoy them, DSxx

* * *

Hermione's eyes scan the room and instantly her heart sinks. It is nothing like his bedroom in Cokeworth. That was spartan and, if anything, a little feminine. This has a distinctly masculine style, but is adorned with rich furnishings that, to the eye, appear rather soft and sensuous. What strikes at her core, however, is the realisation that she had made love to him in a room that had, no doubt, belonged to his parents, and that likely hadn't changed significantly since. It was a small window of understanding into him—his choice to maintain that connection with them. She wasn't even sure why it mattered except that her only possessions in the world were those that either belonged to, or reminded her of, family.

A further source of disquiet is the fact that this is her first time in his most private space and yet it is with another man . . . It should have been with him.

Lucius notices the change in her demeanour.

"Is something the matter?"

She shakes her head slightly. "No . . . it's just . . ."

He waits a few moments before sighing heavily and slipping his hands into his pockets. "I've known Severus for a long time."

She doesn't respond, staring up at the dark window above the bed.

"He doesn't do this sort of thing well. He never has."

Hermione's eyes fall to him, a puzzled frown creasing her brow. "I'm sorry?"

Lucius shrugs his broad shoulders. "He's not particularly adept at relationships—in fact he's not been with anyone in years as far as I know. And whilst I always enjoy the opportunity to wind him up, I must say I've never seen him quite like this."

 _Yes - a complete ass_. But even her internal dialogue lacks conviction. Without Severus present, she is no longer fuelled by the motivation to make him jealous—the need to hurt him for hurting her—and her desire to make good on her earlier actions is rapidly waning.

"He may be a cantankerous bastard but he's clearly quite taken with you." Lucius continues to regard her, his expression serious. "Do you still wish to do this?"

Hermione stares, quite taken aback by what appears to be Lucius' genuine concern. She wonders whether, like her—like all of them—he had also been changed by the war. Or perhaps she had misread him all along . . . perhaps a lot of the pomp and bravado had always been just that—a performance.

She suddenly lifts a hand to her face and rubs her fingers hard against her forehead, trying to think. "I . . . I just need to know the answer. It doesn't really matter how it happens."

She hears the sound of his own hand skimming thoughtfully across the fine stubble on his face. Finally he responds,

"I'm willing to do it myself . . . if you're willing to provide a little . . . inspiration."

She looks hopefully at him. "Of course."

He proceeds to flick open the cuffs of his shirt as he moves closer.

"Lie on the bed. Touch yourself. I'll do the rest."

Allowing a sigh of relief to seep between her lips, she slips her dress off and makes to remove her underwear before he brushes her arm with his fingers. "Leave those on."

She finds herself smiling—not something she ever thought she would do willingly to Lucius Malfoy.

Crawling onto the bed, she rolls over onto her back and looks up. He steps forward until he is standing directly over her. Inclining his head slightly, he reaches for his fly, pulling it open to release a cock that she is surprised to discover is almost as impressive as Severus'. It is already semi-erect and Hermione finds herself quite absorbed by the way that he grips it and the sight of his hand's deft movements, stroking fluidly and repeatedly over his shaft and head. She had always considered that watching someone pleasure themselves provided the most intimate insight into them.

Lucius clearly shared her opinion as he now raises an eyebrow at her to follow suit. The very fact that she found it so private in others was the reason she couldn't look at him as she did it to herself. But he doesn't seem concerned when her eyelids fall closed and she proceeds to slide one hand up to her bra and the other down to her knickers.

As her fingers close around her breast, she realises just how sensitive it has become. The extent of her regression, and the speed with which it has happened are extremely disheartening, and she finds herself increasingly hopeful that the man currently stroking over her, emitting the occasional soft moan, may be able to change all that.

But as her fingers slip under the elastic of her knickers and down to the bud of her clitoris, the image of him instantly evaporates, swamped instead by vivid memories of the man standing despondently in the next room. Just touching her clitoris is enough to conjure the sensation of his tongue, hot and firm, laving . . . his lips sucking; the hand on her breast, squeezing her nipple, is his; she can even feel his feather-light kisses skimming across her jaw.

She sighs—he really was the most exquisite lover. And as she imagines his cock pushing its way inside her, she finds herself moaning.

Her fingers rub her clitoris as she rolls her nipple through her bra and she is surprised by how aroused she feels—not for the exhibitionism, but for reliving those delectably carnal moments with him—the man she has felt closer to than anyone in her life.

She realises then that she doesn't hate him at all. She just feels his loss so viscerally that it had been all she could do to protect herself from it.

As sadness rapidly ebbs away her arousal, she hears the slapping of flesh speed up.

"Stomach, was it?" Lucius grunts.

"If you don't mind."

It sounded like she was at the grocers buying meat.

Moments later, she feels the bed sink down as he kneels on it and then the warm tickle of come spattering across her belly as a dying groan escapes him.

She doesn't even have to rub it in to know the answer.

She opens her eyes to behold the final slow strokes of his fist as he milks the last of his seed onto her abdomen.

Murmuring a quiet, "Thank you," she pushes herself up onto her elbows.

He nods, large chest rising and falling within his tailored shirt. "The pleasure was mine." Then he places a hand beside her and leans closer. "If you need any more, I'd be happy to provide it. But I'll require a little more in return."

She nods.

He continues to gaze at her for a moment before pushing himself back up off the bed and tidying his crotch.

"You know where to find me."

"Yes."

With a small nod and a final flash of his silvery gaze, he turns and leaves, closing the door.

She hears the muffled sound of conversation—neither voice raised. They don't seem to be arguing but it isn't long before she hears another door close and imagines that Lucius is gone.

Wandlessly Scourgifying her stomach, she rises slowly and dresses.

Judging by the way he has treated her, she figures Severus isn't going to like the news. And so she decides that she won't tell him. In reality, she is on her own now anyway. He doesn't need to know.

Running her hands over her tousled hair, she takes a deep breath and opens the door. Without looking at him, she heads straight for the entrance to his chambers but before she even reaches for the handle, he is upon her.

"What happened?"

"I don't consider that to be any of your business."

He grabs her by the shoulder and spins her around to face him.

"Tell me the outcome." His black eyes are bloodshot. She doesn't care to know why.

Pushing his hand away, she glares at him. "I'm the one who's ill. You're not. I'm not obliged to tell you anything."

He seems about to say something but appears to change his mind.

Turning, she snatches at the handle and attempts to pull it open but he slams it closed again, arm barring the way.

"You can't _make_ me tell you, Severus," she shrieks indignantly.

Suddenly he lunges forward but stops, his face mere millimetres from hers. Her breath catches as she feels the warmth seeping between his parted lips, licking under the curve of her jaw. He says nothing but his lips drift back and forth, never quite touching her but enough to leave her skin quivering in their wake.

"You can't just . . ." But her words are lost as his tongue suddenly slides out to scoop under her ear-lobe.

Her breath shudders out and then catches as his teeth clamp lightly, tugging on the pliant flesh. Moaning, she tilts her head sideways, already under his spell despite herself. And as he releases her to nudge upward, his tongue slipping into her ear, she gasps and surges onto her toes, his slick penetration crawling deliciously into her scalp.

Grabbing his shirt front with one desperate fist, she yanks roughly with a mixture of desire and frustration. She wants to shout at him. To scream her sadness into his ear, directly into his brain so that he understands. But his hands are now upon her, one tenderly cradling her head, the other breaching her low neckline, skimming down to claim her nipple. Her words recede once again.

And his mouth never stops, dipping down now to engage her neck, grazing along the delicate skin around her thrumming pulse, lips and tongue sucking and smearing until she is marked by a trail of passionate nips and slick juices that end with him engulfing her mouth with his own.

He is there to mask her cries as his fingers tug mercilessly at her nipples and the other hand relocates between her legs, the heel pressing so firmly into her labia that her clitoris is trapped, and gradually ground into throbbing submission with each excruciatingly deliberate flexion of his forearm.

Her legs give away. Only then does she realise she is magically bound to the door. She attempts to drag her mouth away to draw breath. She can't. He has her caught there . . . like a fly in a web . . . to do with as he pleases. Grasping the neckline of her dress, he forces it open, buttons tumbling to the floor, before flicking open her bra to release her breasts which he proceeds to devour in obscenely hot mouthfuls that she can barely watch for the stabbing desire in her core.

More of her dress falls away with each deft flick of his hand and then her knickers are bunched in his fist and tossed aside. He continues to flay her with his mouth and grind her pussy with his unrelenting fingers until she dissolves into a mess of high-pitched whimpering. Finally he allows her nipple to slide—wet and painfully erect—from his mouth, blood red against the pallor of her skin, before dragging his simmering gaze down her nakedness, now framed only in the hang of her ragged clothes. She can only breathe, drawing in heaving lungfuls that pull in at her ribs in an effort to remain conscious.

Then she feels it, the distinct prickle of his powerful magic as his hands skim over her, moulding and sculpting her body like clay, forcing her further up the door, pulling her legs apart, retracting her shoulders until she is as open to him as possible.

"Do you now feel inclined to answer?" His breathy baritone slips out between bruised lips as he raises his nose slightly, targeting her, piercing her with his gaze. The warning in his voice is unmistakable.

But there is nothing that would make her stop him. Not now. Her pussy is dripping. Her desperate need to be filled even surpasses the throbbing ache that radiates through her body from the pounding she has already taken.

She looks at him defiantly and his lips twist with an intimidating resolve as he releases his cock.

And then he enters her.

She cries out, the stretch is immense; he arrives deep inside her with such a solid punch that the breath is knocked out of her.

But she can't describe it as anything other than ecstasy. She'd wanted him to unleash himself upon her—and now that he had, it was as all-consuming as she'd hoped it would be.

His mouth returns to hers, tongue fighting with his cock for the title of most brutal. One hand is back vigorously tugging her nipple, the thumb of the other flicks rapidly over her clitoris until she squeezes her eyes closed in preparation for an orgasm that feels like it is going to rip her apart.

He halts. Everything. Right on the precipice of her release it all stops . . . still except for the sway of her heaving breasts, quiet except for the harsh cry that dies in her throat.

And she trembles there, not breathing, only hoping, wanting, needing . . . and knowing that he isn't going to let it happen.

The letdown is so intense that she feels the tears slip from beneath her lids.

And then he starts again, slowly, rocking into her, teasing her forward, dabbing at her nipple now with his fingertip, riding her clitoris with small, stimulating flicks to bring her back, dragging her closer to the edge once again.

Her mouth drops open as the tension builds, face shuddering with the strain, pitiable noises tumbling from her lips as she finds that her entire being wants only one thing in the world—and he is the only one who can provide it. He barely needs to stop now, holding her so carefully on the precipice that she feels the cracks starting to spread, taking hold.

"Please." The word trembles on her lips. "Please . . . let me come."

"Answer me." His breath buffets her cheek in response.

She doesn't.

She can't.

But she must.

"Of course it's you," she whispers. "It was only ever you. You're the one."

He stops. Her eyes crack open to see the tears in his. Then as she watches he thrusts once, twice, stroking the shaft of her clitoris until she is suddenly lost.

He releases the bind and she collapses with an unearthly wail into his arms, her entire body convulsing uncontrollably as the orgasm hits like a freight train. He holds her to him but she feels little apart from the momentous contractions that seize and stutter through her pelvis. His iron shaft, still embedded to the hilt, drives the tremors even deeper until she is sobbing with a mixture of shock and relief, her entire body boneless, toneless . . . useless.

And when he finally withdraws and places her gently on the ground, it takes some moments before her legs are able to take her weight. Even then, she still finds herself sliding down into the pool of rags at her feet.

He stands before her. Still fully erect.

Finally she finds her voice. "You didn't come?"

He continues to regard her with that same sadness. "I can't."

Then he turns and slowly retreats to his bedroom. The last she hears is the emphatic thud of the door—closing her out, just as she had done.


	20. Nature and Nurture

A/N: Happy Easter to those of you who celebrate. DSxx

* * *

Hermione can manage no more than a few bites of dry toast the next morning. She moves gingerly around her claustrophobic quarters, the aftermath of the evening's sexual inquisition branded in mottled hues all over her body.

The ones she can't cover with clothing, she now glamours. She is to meet with Sophia later that morning and such tell-tale marks are definitely not something she would ever want to risk a student seeing.

She does, however, feel strangely taken by the sinuous tracks of weals and bruises that adorn her skin. It is evidence of him, after all—his mark upon her. Even if his actions were, at times, both ruthless and relentless, she felt him wanting her and, in some ways, it was all she ever wanted . . . right from the beginning.

 _But now?_ It really seemed that he didn't want her at all. Not anymore. He had appeared rather regretful at the end but that was probably the usual discomfort that comes with subjecting someone to rejection.

 _He 'couldn't' come? How was that physically possible?_ He had certainly managed an erection . . . In fact, if the rigidity of it was anything to go by, he was as aroused as any man could possibly be. _So why couldn't he come?_ _Was it by choice? . . . That he couldn't bring himself to do it . . . psychologically, ethically, morally? . . . Or just that he didn't want to . . . despite, or perhaps even because of, his knowledge of how much she needed it._

She had thought about confronting him, staggering to his door on her ridiculously rickety legs to demand an explanation. But it was really his own prerogative. He was under no obligation to do anything for her—the same as she was under no obligation to reveal the outcome of her time with Lucius . . . and yet he'd made her. It didn't really seem his style, and yet clearly it was. He'd done it. And it might not seem her style . . . but . . . she'd loved it. The sensation of his hard body slamming into hers even now makes her nether regions tingle despite the lingering pain.

She runs her hands over her deteriorating body. Her breasts seem to have taken the worst of it. They are so tender that she can barely touch them. And she now acknowledges with regret that she is going to have to make additional provisions for her journey outside, no longer certain that her body can tolerate the elements in the way that it recently had . . . when she'd thought she was better.

She diverts herself with making tea and reading about alternative energy sources in preparation for the next week's lesson before the familiar sense of trepidation starts to flutter in her breast. She must leave . . . and pass his rooms on the way—something that she has come to dread as the idea of seeing him fills her with such a confusing mixture of anger and desperate longing that it feels like yet another physical pain—and she can do little to mitigate against it.

Collecting her jacket, sunglasses, hat and gloves, she closes the door quietly behind herself before traversing the corridor. He doesn't appear. She is disappointed. As she always is.

Sophia is already waiting by the front door, the brief smile that flutters across her lips enough to reveal that she still isn't quite herself. Hermione hopes that she will feel comfortable enough to discuss what is concerning her on their walk.

"All set?" Hermione smiles warmly.

Sophia nods and immediately tucks her hand around Hermione's arm. It is a level of familiarity that should feel awkward, or at least disconcertingly forward, but it doesn't. In fact, it feels extremely comfortable despite the return of her hypersensitivity—as it had when she had first taken Severus' arm . . . on that first date. _Don't_. She forces the memory from her mind.

They step into the sunlight and Hermione is instantly glad for her dark glasses. Sophia lightly squeezes her arm and, whilst being appreciative of the small gesture of reassurance, Hermione is simultaneously struck by what is yet another display of the young girl's surprising intuition.

They start down the path, making small talk about the stunning weather, the flowers that have sprung up across the grounds, and a new Herbology assignment that Sophia is working on.

But just when Hermione feels certain that they are headed for the lake, its sleek black surface now rolling out before them, Sophia tugs her in the direction of the Forbidden Forest.

"I assume that this is safe?" Hermione teases.

"I would never put you in danger." Sophia looks up at her earnestly. "I have checked the entire area thoroughly."

Hermione frowns at her. "You've been inside the Forbidden Forest?"

Sophia nods.

"How many times?"

"I . . . I've actually lost count."

Hermione feels that in her position as a teacher she should probably admonish the young girl—or at least warn her. The Forest is out of bounds to students after all. But she and Harry and Ron had explored it so many times over their years at Hogwarts—she feels that she is hardly one to lecture others.

"What do you know of the Jobberknoll?" Sophia asks out of the blue.

Hermione takes a moment to answer, attempting to cast her mind back to their 'Care of Magical Creatures' text in third year.

"It's a bird. Quite rare I believe. Blue in colour."

Sophia nods. "Its feathers really are rather beautiful . . . they're highly sought after actually."

Hermione vaguely remembers something about that too. "Truth serum?"

Sophia finally gives a genuine smile. "I knew you would know of it . . . You're the smartest woman I've ever met."

Hermione feels a rush of warmth at yet another generous compliment from the girl, but decides that she can also afford to push her a little, even if it is just to help her to open up.

"So I'm not the smartest _person_?" she teases.

"Well . . . possibly the equal smartest."

"And obviously the other person you're thinking of is a man?"

The girl's eyes flicker away. "Yes."

Hermione detects that note of melancholia again and decides not to press her further. They had also reached the edge of the wood. It was prudent to remain vigilant.

Sophia leads her between the trunks of several large trees, their footfalls muffled by the thick layer of moss covering the ground. They continue on until only sparse shafts of sunlight reach through the foliage. Then she abruptly stops.

"There," she whispers, pointing to a branch overhead.

Hermione spies a twiggy nest in the crook of the branch and what looks like a fluffy, speckled head, complete with orange beak, opening and closing furiously as it trills.

"Is that a Jabberknoll?" she asks doubtfully.

"No, it's a Jabberknoll nest."

Hermione frowns as she rises up on her toes, attempting to see more. Suddenly a small blue bird swoops out of nowhere, beak full of insects, and proceeds to stuff them into the mouth of the baby who gobbles them down and instantly trills for more. The mother hops around the nest, unsuccessfully attempting to satisfy it—a difficult task as the baby appears to be at least twice her size.

"It's a cuckoo," Sophia explains. "When it hatched, it pushed the Jabberknoll eggs out of the nest."

Hermione had never seen a cuckoo before but she'd read about cuckoo mothers who would lay their eggs in the nests of others, divesting themselves of the responsibility of having to bring up their own young. It was a clever but macabre strategy, especially considering the fact that the surrogate mother's real babies were killed in the process.

"Cuckoos are brood parasites." Sophia's painfully earnest face regards her. "This one has taken the place of the mother's real babies. And still she looks after it . . . like it is her own. Like it isn't an imposter . . . or a . . . a . . . monster."

Seeing how distressed the young girl is becoming, Hermione touches her shoulder, attempting to comfort her.

"The natural world isn't always fair, Sophia." She tries to placate her. "Animals do what they can to survive . . . to survive in the way that is best for them. And unfortunately there are sometimes innocent lives lost along the way."

"Yes . . . the Jabberknoll babies," Sophia responds forlornly. "Do you know that when they die, they scream? A scream made up of every sound they have ever heard."

Hermione looks at her hard, trying to understand.

"I heard them," she whispers. "I was here when the cuckoo pushed them from the nest. And they screamed. Without ever really having lived . . . Even from inside the shell—I heard them scream."

Sophia's shimmering blue eyes squeeze her heart, but Hermione finds that the story disturbs her on a much deeper level. She wonders what the girl is trying to tell her.

"Why did you bring me here, Sophia?"

Sophia blinks rapidly, clearing her watery gaze. She looks back up at the nest resignedly. "The mother . . . Can you see what she's doing?"

Hermione shakes her head faintly, confused to know what she is driving at. "She's caring for the baby . . . feeding it . . . as though it is her own."

"But it's not." The anguish in her voice is palpable.

"Clearly she doesn't realise."

"Really?" Sophia regards her incredulously. "You think she can't tell? It's nothing like her babies."

Hermione is at a loss, clutching at passing thoughts in case they hold the answer she is after. "Perhaps the mothering instinct is so strong that she simply follows it . . . Or perhaps she does know but she would rather have that baby than none at all."

Sophia instantly locks eyes with her, holding her gaze as though Hermione has just validated some significant understanding—one that she, herself shares.

"How are you feeling?" The girl suddenly reaches for her hand.

Hermione smiles in surprise. "I'm . . . I'm fine."

"You're wearing your glasses again . . . and your gloves."

Hermione lifts her other hand, touching the frame of her glasses self-consciously. She doesn't want to let on about her relapse, especially considering how excited Sophia had been about her recovery.

"It's . . . really . . . I'm perfectly fine."

"Do you remember . . . I asked a question of you in the classroom a few weeks ago?" Sophia continues to look at her with concern . . . _or could it be pity?_

Hermione shakes her head. There had been a multitude of questions.

"I'm sorry . . . you'll need to refresh my memory."

"You didn't take me seriously, but I asked if you were pregnant."

Hermione begins to laugh it off. "And I answered, 'No.' Of course I'm not p—"

Then she feels it, the tender ache of her breasts, the mounting nausea that she'd put down to her relapse, the tiredness, the emotional turmoil—it all suddenly collapses together. And she can no longer breathe.

Suddenly she pulls her hand from the girl's grasp. "I'm sorry, Sophia, I just remembered something . . . I have to go."

Turning, she starts striding for the clearing, arm slung protectively across her stomach.

 _Oh, Gods_.


	21. Conceal and Reveal

Hermione floats. The water is colder than she would like but she can't summon the will to change anything.

Not one thing.

Both hands cradle her abdomen . . . they have for hours.

Impossible. It is totally impossible to fathom.

And yet the proof is right there. Strewn over the bathroom floor.

It's indisputable.

A divination spell, a pregnancy potion and even a Muggle pregnancy kit are in unanimous agreement about the verdict—she . . . Hermione Jean Granger . . . is pregnant.

 _But how?_

She isn't dense. Of course she knows the physical requirements. And she and Severus had certainly met those.

But the issue was one of fertility. She'd not had a period in years—literally. The Healers at St Mungos couldn't say if it was due to her weight loss or if the condition, itself, was responsible but it was genuinely considered that she wouldn't be able to conceive.

She'd had to come to terms with it—something she'd found immensely difficult considering the fact that her last partner had been unable to. He'd left her because of it. He was her boss—quite a lot older than she—and he'd wanted a family . . . a family she could never provide.

Now this. She flexes her fingers against her abdomen in wonder. A tiny being growing, evolving just beneath her fingertips . . . defying all odds just by being there. It was . . . miraculous.

But if she thought about it, she could imagine that her physical improvement, and perhaps even the happiness she'd felt with Severus, may have been enough to induce ovulation . . . an egg waiting years to make its journey, meeting with a seed . . . his seed . . . delivered with such passion.

And she could almost imagine their microscopic fusion, as she had lain fused with him, nestled into him.

It had been perfect.

But that's where the perfection ended.

With him.

 _Severus_.

Her hands subconsciously slide together, fingers interlocking protectively.

 _How would he take it . . . now that he wanted nothing to do with her?_

 _Would he feel trapped by the revelation?_ _Would he think she'd done it on purpose? Perhaps to keep him with her . . . to ensure a constant supply of his healing balm?_

After all, he had asked if she was taking anything that evening . . . if she was protected. She had avoided the question, not wishing to reveal the pathetic state of her body, her inadequacies as a woman. She'd wondered then if he would be likely to reject her too . . . because of it.

But it hadn't even required that. He'd managed to reject her without that admission at all . . . even without that final clincher.

She stares at the cracks snaking across the ceiling—still damaged from the war . . . even after all this time. None of them meet. They take separate journeys. And it is probably just as well. If they did connect it could be disastrous.

She sighs and closes her eyes.

Then there was the possibility that he would be happy. Maybe he'd always wanted to be a father. She had actually imagined it—fleetingly. As she was sitting beside the fire with him, grazing her toes against his, he'd seemed so relaxed and comfortable. She could imagine a child on his knee, reading one of the well-loved books shrouding his shoulders.

But that image had all but evaporated over the past two weeks. Now the thought of him lovingly embracing her as she tearfully reveals the good news seems utterly farcical.

The truth is, however, that he needs to know. He must be told.

It isn't as though she can keep it a secret forever anyway. In a few months' time her condition would be more than obvious. As long as she could actually carry a baby. Provided her body was capable of supporting another being—especially when it could barely support her own existence.

The thought makes her sadder than she could possibly imagine. And that realisation worries her—so many babies are lost at this early stage for many reasons, and her body is hardly the epitome of lush vitality.

The ache in her chest swells. She can barely understand her sense of attachment after only a few hours. But it is the idea of having someone to care for—someone to love and teach and share all of herself with—that has captured her heart. This, and the sense that she has been given a singular gift, one that is unlikely to ever be repeated. She feels the tears slipping down her cheeks. But she daren't even label them happiness . . . not yet.

She will tell him.

But he needn't be involved. Not at all. She will look after the baby. She will do everything.

And even if he wants neither of them. Even if he spurns them—sends them away as he had done before—she is confident that they will be okay.

They. Them. Together.

* * *

She knocks.

Dressed only in slippers and dressing gown she feels completely under-prepared but she needs to get it out. She needs to tell someone. And he needs to know.

Deep down, she wants his response. No matter what it is, she needs to witness the reality—not the agonising scenes that have been playing out _ad infinitum_ in the masochistic movie reel of her mind. She's already seen his face in her mind's eye a hundred times, slowly melting into fury, shock, despair and everything in between. It is making her feel ill.

She just wants him to—

"Hermione."

It's him. He's there.

But only just.

She has never seen him dishevelled, but that's exactly how she would describe him now.

He runs a hand through his tangled hair, a day's stubble marring his normally impeccably smooth skin.

Stepping back, bloodshot eyes downcast, he allows her in.

The room is stuffy. Books are strewn across the coffee table. A bottle of firewhisky sits on the mantel—half empty.

 _Is this the best time to tell him?_

Hermione turns to suggest that perhaps she should come back at another time when he speaks.

"I'm glad you're here."

The words die on her lips.

"We need to talk." He gestures to a chair by the fireplace.

Hesitating, she waits until he takes the chair opposite. Then she follows, perching herself on the edge of hers, just in case she needs to leave quickly.

"What do you wish to talk about?"

She hears her own clipped tone and wishes it weren't so. After all, she is hoping that he won't devastate her completely when it's her turn.

"I believe I know the cause of your suffering."

 _You?_ She instantly admonishes her inner voice for the quip.

But then it sinks in—the exact meaning of his words.

"What?" She leans forward. "What is it?"

"I must ask you to answer some questions first." He speaks slowly, methodically. He doesn't seem drunk, just immensely tired.

She nods quickly.

"I need the truth."

 _The truth? When had she ever been untruthful?_

"That's all I've ever given you." She feels herself choking up and drops her gaze to her white knuckled fists which clutch onto the bathrobe tie like a life-line.

He doesn't respond and when her eyes venture back, she sees that he is staring into the fire, hands loosely clasped, elbows propped wearily on his knees.

He is silent for so long that when he finally speaks, she gives a faint jolt.

"When you were with me . . . in the infirmary. When you were providing 'care.' Were we ever . . . intimate?"

Her heart sinks. This is what had driven that agonising distance between them in the first place.

"It depends what you call 'intimate.'"

"Did we have sex?"

The question is delivered so quickly that she has to inhale rapidly before she can respond.

"We had . . . oral sex."

"You performed fellatio . . . on me."

"Yes." Her voice retreats to almost nothing.

"Did I ejaculate?"

"Yes."

"Did you swallow?"

Her words stick in her throat. "I don't understand what—"

"Did . . . you . . . swallow?" he repeats more forcefully.

"Yes!" she cries angrily.

"Why?"

She leaps up from her chair. "What do you mean, 'Why'?!"

"You were a student. I was your Professor. We weren't even on particularly friendly terms prior to this. What would make you swallow my ejaculate?"

"Because you . . . you . . ."

"Because I made you do it." His voice is tight.

Her face contorts. "No . . . I didn't see it like that. You didn't know what you were doing . . . you were delirious for much of the time. And I felt I could help. You wanted it. Sometimes you would cry. I let you . . . do it to me."

His head is in his hands. It is shaking almost imperceptibly.

"I wanted to do it," she reassures him. "I didn't try to stop you."

"You should have," he hisses bitterly, his black eyes rushing up to meet hers.

"But I . . . I couldn't." Her eyes suddenly fill with tears. "I loved you."

"Fuck!" he growls, leaping to his feet and striding away from her.

"It wasn't my fault!" she cries desperately. "I was young. I was so lonely . . . without my parents, without my best friends. You were the only constant in my life. And you needed me. You told me so. You touched me. You kissed me . . . my hands . . . so lovingly. I . . . I thought—"

"I didn't know it was you," he grinds out through gritted teeth, thrusting his hands firmly into his pockets.

"As I discovered." She brushes the tears away angrily. "You shattered that delusion in no uncertain terms . . ."

His lips draw back in anguish.

"It took me a long time to let you go," she rasps, trying to swallow past the constriction in her throat. "And I truly thought that I had. Until . . ."

"Until the manipulation began . . ." he finishes, the overhang of his tousled hair adding to the haunted look in his eyes.

She shakes her head, more agitated than confused. "Manipulation?"

"Haven't you felt it?" he mutters darkly. "That . . . indescribable . . . pull."

"No."

He stares at her for a long moment before lifting a hand to his face, slowly rubbing his eyelids. "I survived Nagini's bite because I took every precaution . . . I had been inoculating myself with her venom for years, carrying the antivenin and a host of quality blood-replenishing potions at all times . . . just in case."

She gives him only silence in return.

He sighs before dropping his hand to his side and facing her. "Why, then, did I nearly die? Why was I ill for many months when Arthur fucking Weasley recovered from its bite in a matter of weeks?"

Hermione considers demanding that he stop talking in riddles but his answer comes before she can formulate the request.

"Because it wasn't the venom alone that was attacking me . . . It was him."

"Who?"

"The Dark Lord . . . Voldemort."

"But how could he—?"

Severus begins to pace. "Nagini was a horcrux—the only living one that the Dark Lord created. She was carrying an extremely unstable piece his soul after so many rounds of division . . . and it had become even more fragile as the other horcruxes were progressively destroyed. I believe that, with my historical connection to the Dark Lord, upon Nagini's bite, along with the poison there must have been some . . . transference."

"Transference? . . . You mean—?" She stares at him.

He stops pacing, his face pinched with the strain. "Yes. I believe I was infected . . . And that I am now carrying a part of him inside me, not as a horcrux necessarily but more like a possession . . . similar to that stupid bastard, Quirrell."

Hermione's mouth feels suddenly parched.

"But I didn't make that connection until recently. I thought I'd received a particularly bad bite—a lot more venom which had taken significantly longer to recover from, and resulted in the loss of a good deal of function." He looks hard at her. "That was . . . until you arrived . . . and we began to—"

Hermione crosses her arms defensively. "What difference did that make?"

"I started to recover."

"What?" Hermione's eyebrows shoot up. "You've been improving . . . like me . . . and you didn't say anything?"

"I . . . wasn't sure of the connection." His gaze slips away from hers.

Hermione's face flushes with anger. "Really? The fact that we were both healing—together . . . you didn't think that perhaps our conditions were related?"

He runs a hand distractedly through his hair. "I needed to be sure. I wanted to work it out before I informed you."

"Informed me? Informed me of what? You haven't informed me of anything." Hermione cries. "At least nothing that explains what the fuck is going on."

Snape sighs, propping his hands on his hips as he implores the ceiling. "It was only confirmed last night. After Lucius." He then drops his head, shoulders sagging under the burden. "I believe that you were also infected . . . as a result of what I forced you to do." He takes a deep breath. "The physical and . . . as you have just confirmed, emotional connection between us—at the time that he was still actively invading my body—could have been enough."

Hermione's hands fly to her face. She presses them over her mouth and nose, not daring herself to breathe.

"And whilst my body fought him . . . like an infection, driving him to hide, laying dormant inside me, waiting . . . yours didn't—it was likely a more insidious possession, allowing him to take root, to evolve, to spread. I believe that your 'condition' is actually your experience of him, his existence within your body and the fact that he is trying to engage with the world through you . . . trying to feel.

She makes a feeble whimpering sound but no words come out.

"And so now you understand the manipulation." He flings his arm out to indicate them both. "All of this . . . between us . . . has been orchestrated . . . by him. When we are together, when our essences combine, he is whole. We balance each other because we each carry a part of him."

She shakes her head disbelievingly. "That can't be," she finally whispers. ". . . If it were true, surely he would want to spread . . . to infect others . . . What would be the point of bringing us back together?"

Severus steps toward her, his hands outstretched. "Because to truly exist—to come back into this world and not to simply feel it through a surrogate, he needs a body. That's what he wants. And that's why I can't be near you." His voice suddenly breaks. Stunned, she looks into his eyes which are swimming with despair. "All I want is to be with you. To be near you. Inside you . . . but all of it feeds him. I couldn't climax because that holds too much risk. I shouldn't have even been inside you except that the drive was so strong . . . so impossibly difficult to resist." He steps forward and grasps her hand with an agonizing desperation. "Hermione, we are going to have to live with our own afflictions. And even though we 'feel' complete—we can never be together. If it were to happen . . . if we were to allow those two parts of his soul to finally manifest within a body . . . it would mean his return. We would be responsible . . . for the resurrection of the Dark Lord."

Hermione's breaths come in shallow gasps. Lifting a trembling hand, she places it over her abdomen.

Severus stares at her. Neither of them speak. But then his face starts to transform, like an explosion in slow motion. Everything changes.

All she sees in the end are the whites of his eyes.

Then she collapses into darkness.


	22. Round and Round

Severus holds Hermione locked against him, arms stiff with fear. Trembling, he contemplates the painfully slight burden of her body, limp in his embrace, and yet encumbered with an entity so monumentally sinister, so ominous that he feels he will surely drop her.

A baby . . . there is a baby. Even without words, he is certain of it . . . A new life—one of their own creation—protectively buried beneath the hand that still braces her belly.

 _But could the Dark Lord even be considered in such terms?_ Surely his existence, his bitter immortality, didn't allow for it—didn't allow for one to entertain even a sense of new, of life, of wonder, of hope. His existence—that of a malevolent parasite—should never be deemed anything other than an abomination.

And yet that's not what captures him now. Surrendering his head to her chest, Severus listens, not for confirmation of life but reassurance, the gentle breaths, the rhythmic flutter of her heart, all a wilful stance against that which had all but consumed her. Despite it all, she still fights, she still exists. They both do.

 _But could the same be said for the baby?_ His baby. _Could it fight?_ Or was it already condemned. _Even without what would normally constitute a body, had it already been occupied by the withering black soul that had tainted so many others? Had it already become just another vessel?_

Standing on leaden legs, he carries her now to the bedroom, laying her on the bed before resting a hand against her cheek, grasping her cold fingers with the other. Waiting.

He'd thought it best to maintain his distance from her . . . to fight the maleficent will that was driving him, driving them both. And yet they'd both suffered as a result. This was the inescapable torture— a need so desperate, a union so perfect, and yet any true desire masked by the incessant tugs and jerks of the puppeteer.

He'd previously read of a case in the natural world—that of ants parasitised by fungus. The fungus would release mind-controlling chemicals to manipulate the brains of the ants, rendering them little more than zombie-like slaves. The end for them was, of course, death but that mercy was only granted once the ant had executed its master's desires, relocating to a place of fertility to ensure the continued survival of the fungus, and the continued infection of further ants.

 _What was the truth of their own condition? Were they, too, zombies? Did they possess any free will—any choice in the matter, whatsoever?_

And was the pain in his chest—the one that hadn't abated since he'd begun to slot the puzzle pieces together—and that had ached terribly as he'd considered the loss of the one person he'd felt could complete him . . . was that anything more than punishment? A sharp retaliation against his defiance, a twisting pain, pressuring him to continue to execute the will of the parasite . . . the Dark Lord.

She suddenly gasps as though surfacing from underwater. He is there to catch her. He holds her to his chest and she sobs.

 _How long had she known? Would she have told him of her condition if not for his revelations?_

He wishes now that he hadn't informed her as he had. It had been cold, borne of horror, of bitter resentment for their tortured existence. Of course he hadn't known she was pregnant. But the blow to her would have been extreme. She could have lost the baby . . . And she could still lose it. Indeed, perhaps that would be the end . . . perhaps that's what was ultimately required.

But despite his absolute conviction about their shared plight and its nefarious intent, he can't seem to shake the inexplicable sense of hope that there may be another outcome—a different one . . . one where they escape—all three of them intact and alive—and are just allowed to be.

He strokes her hair, holding her even closer as though he can somehow make it true.

But if he were honest, he had never really expected that his life would work out. There had been too much recital, intensive preparation for a wretched demise—too many events that were simply a recapitulation of the same themes—justified suffering and inevitable loss—portending the same outcome . . . a life ultimately falling short, its lone flame guttering, and then extinction . . . unobserved, unsung.

And yet he is not alone. Not yet.

And perhaps he won't be . . . not again. He gazes into her eyes, pleading behind the shine of tears, and knows that he could take her with him. They could go out together—leaving this bleak world to its own sordid devices. All three of them, in the final act of defiance . . . eliminating the Dark Lord once and for all.

"What about love?"

The question jars him.

Her hand lifts to his cheek. "What if we loved the baby?" Her voice is whispery quiet but there is a strength to it, a conviction, and it stabs into his chest, reigniting the pain.

He shakes his head. "It's not a language he understands."

Her lips tremble but she doesn't look away. "He was conceived in love . . . wasn't he?"

Severus closes his eyes against the pain. He can't deny his feelings for her. But nor can he validate them. He'd taken her to Spinner's End because he'd wanted to know if she would accept him—all that encompassed him. And she had. He'd made love to her and felt a level of contentment unequalled in his life. But then it had all fallen apart . . . the threads of doubt had coalesced and his fear of doing more damage had ultimately taken over, guiding his harsh actions and blinding him to anything more than the threat of deception and manipulation.

What she is really asking now is if he loves her. _But can he truthfully answer? Could the Dark Lord's influence possibly even masquerade as love?_ He decides that it doesn't matter. They can either face the future alone or together . . . and there is only one outcome that he can live with.

"Yes," he responds, a deep, breathy rumble, before leaning down to capture her lips with his.

Hermione sighs against his mouth. It isn't so much relief, she realises, as the release of a pressure-valve. She could have taken nothing more. Literally. His words had floored her. Completely. She had been through too much, too quickly and it had exhausted all of her carefully cultivated avenues of coping.

But with his strong arms wrapped around her now, his lips kissing away her tears, and that single word, 'Yes,' she feels she may just be able to face the future—one that now holds a tiny glimmer of hope . . . _but could her baby hope for the same?_

She arches into him, trying to lose herself in his pervading warmth, protect herself in lieu of the protection she would want to give to the tiny being inside her.

However, despite her initial shock and despair at his revelations, she now finds herself far less sure of his explanation for their conditions, and the condemnation of their baby as a result. _After all, where is the proof?_ _What evidence is there beyond historical inferences and the mutually beneficial nature of their interactions?_

In fact, there could be nothing at all untoward about their complementary ailments. There was even a chance that they would never discover the true nature of the initiating event, but would always be able to bring one another intense comfort . . . to provide that crucial balance. And honestly she couldn't imagine anything better than continuing to heal him as he healed her till the end of their days. In fact, his kisses are even now rapidly melting away the hurt and doubt of the past weeks.

She draws his tongue into her mouth with a moan of 'at last' and proceeds to slither her own hungry muscle along it, searchingly tasting him, drinking him in. In reality, she wants to forget about all of it, she wants him to make love to her, to fuck her until her heart and mind are free . . . if only for a few fleeting moments.

But it is that image of freedom—of flying, unburdened—that suddenly jolts her. She'd imagined herself as a lovely little bird—a blue bird soaring through a blue sky. But that thought leads her to something more . . . another memory . . . another bird . . . not nearly so lovely—a cuckoo . . . _the_ cuckoo . . .

"Fuck!" Hermione pushes him away.

"What?"

"I have to go . . . I have to see someone."

"What do you mean?" He stares at her incredulously. "You just fainted."

"There's something I need to . . ." Hermione struggles to get up. "I need to check . . . something . . ."

"Hermione?"

She holds up a hand. "I'm sorry . . . I . . . I'll be back."

On slightly wobbly legs, she leaves the bedroom and heads for the door to his chambers. When she reaches for the handle, he calls to her.

She turns.

"I can accompany you." He is standing in the bedroom doorway, still unkempt but scruffily sexy, lips now even more succulent after their exchange, and it is all she can do to stop herself from staggering back into his arms.

"Thank you. I'll be fine," she reassures him. But the fact that he wanted to be with her, to care for her, makes her heart soar. "I'll be back soon."

Then she leaves quickly before the draw becomes too great.

As she strides toward her room, she thinks back to the events of the morning. _What exactly had Sophia said?_ That the mother jobberknoll looked after the cuckoo like it wasn't an imposter or a . . . monster.

It was a strong term now that Hermione thought about it—although the cuckoo baby was rather large and had, or course, killed the other babies. But still . . .

Hermione quickly pulls off her robe and slippers and pulls on a dress, flats and a thick shawl for the journey.

As she makes her way up the stairs from the dungeon, she remembers the look on Sophia's face when she'd suggested that perhaps the mother jobberknoll would rather have an imposter than no baby at all. The thought sends a shiver through her and she quickens her pace.

Despite the fact that it is a Saturday evening, she suspects she knows where she will find the girl. There is just something about her.

Taking a short-cut, as she happens to know every one, she makes her way to the library. By the time she arrives, her heart is racing, and it's not only the physical exertion that is responsible.

As she enters, she remembers Sophia's words about the mother bird's real babies—the fact that they had screamed, without having lived at all . . . still they screamed.

She takes a gasping breath. Racing down the aisles, she finally sees her sitting alone at a table, face shrouded in dark hair, bottom lip caught between her teeth in that way that was so bloody familiar.

By the time Hermione reaches her, she is consumed by a whirlwind of emotions.

She crouches down, slapping her hand onto the parchment before the girl.

"Who are you?"

Sophia looks up in surprise, then her expression transforms into one of pain, before a defiant edge fixes her jaw.

She carefully sets down her quill.

"Don't you recgonise me?" she asks, blue eyes taking on an even more disconcertingly piercing hue. "Don't I seem even a little bit familiar?

Hermione's hand on the parchment curls into a fist. _Who the hell was she?_

"I'm very much like my grandmother in personality," the girl continues matter-of-factly. "But I've been told I have my mother's eyes."

"Your mother?" Hermione blinks in confusion. "Who is she?"

"Lily Potter."

Hermione recoils in shock.

"Lil . . .," is all she can manage before her voice disappears altogether.

Sophia nods slowly.

"Daughter of Harry and Ginny Potter."

"But . . .," Hermione chokes out the word. "Harry and Ginny don't have a daughter."

"Not yet."

Hermione feels the blood drain from her face.

"I'm afraid my name isn't Sophia Langford, either." The girl looks suddenly contrite, clearly uncomfortable with the deception. "It's Sophia Snape, daughter of Roland Snape . . . Better known to the rest of the Wizarding world as the Dark Lord."

Hermione's shaking legs finally give way and she falls to her knees.

"I'm your grand-daughter."


	23. Past and Present

_A/N: So lovely to hear from you all. I adore your thoughts and feedback, DSxx_

* * *

 _Roland._

 _Roland._

It was her grandfather's name. She would always have chosen it for her son. Always.

Even without it, without that corroboration, Hermione is in no doubt that the girl—now trying desperately to keep her chin from quivering—is speaking the truth.

Her grand-daughter. Sophia. Daughter of the Dark Lord.

The Dark Lord. Her baby. Her son.

He who should never have returned. But for her. But for she and Severus.

 _What had they done?_

Instead of making love, they had made evil . . . and returned it to the world.

Pure. Evil.

She reaches for the girl's hand.

 _What had she been exposed to? What horrors had she endured?_

By way of response, the girl's face suddenly collapses. Like a dam wall bursting, every emotion pours forth, a tidal wave that she has clearly been holding on to for a long time.

Hermione pulls herself to her feet, tugging Sophia up also.

"Come with me," she murmurs, holding the girl close as she ushers her toward one of the private study rooms.

With a flick of her hand, she opens it, lights the lamps and shuts the door before wrapping her arms around the girl's small frame and standing with her, letting the gut-wrenching sobs wrack her body, her face warm and increasingly wet against Hermione's shoulder.

They remain that way. Leaning into one another. Hermione blinking through her own mute anguish, shock preventing her from feeling anything beyond a hollow despair . . . for all of them.

Even after the tears have subsided, Sophia remains clinging to her—shuddering inhalations interspersed with heavy sighs—until finally she lifts her head, slowly, achingly, as though it weighs far more than her neck can manage.

She is a mess. Hermione uses her shawl to wipe away the sheen of soggy despair, her fingers comb the hair back from Sophia's face—fine, black hair, so much like Severus' she wonders why it had never struck her before.

The ghost of a smile eventually creeps onto the girl's lips . . . a long-awaited release . . . as though the burden she has been carrying has finally been eased, just a small amount.

"Can you tell me how you got here?" Hermione asks, keeping a protective arm around her shoulders.

"This." Sophia dips her fingers into her shirtfront and pulls out the familiar gold chain and tiny hourglass . . . a time-turner. "You gave it to me."

Hermione recoils. "Me?"

"Yes. Professor McGonagall left it to you . . . after she died."

Closing her eyes, Hermione realises that the emotional turmoil of the day is likely to be far from over.

"Perhaps we should sit," she suggests, gesturing to the table in the centre of the room. They each take chairs, hands remaining fiercely entwined. It is clear that Sophia is extremely reluctant to let her go but Hermione finds herself equally desperate to provide the comfort. She can't begin to imagine what the girl has been through . . . and is now concerned about how she, herself, may have contributed to her distress.

"Please tell me why you're here," Hermione asks, gently squeezing her hands.

Sophia takes a deep breath, releasing it before answering. "We decided that it would be best . . . for me to come."

Hermione inclines her head slightly. "We?"

"You and I and Grandpa."

"By Grandpa you mean . . ."

"Severus . . . Professor Snape." She nods slowly, looking particularly melancholy.

"And what did we expect you to be able to do?"

Sophia's blue eyes stare until they turn glassy. "We thought that I could try . . . to make it better."

Hermione hates to see the girl having to endure even more pain. But it is clear that she is here for this . . . for this very conversation. It simply has to happen.

"How bad is it?" she persists. "In the future?"

"Bad." The tears trickle in runnels down the sides of Sophia's nose. "The third Wizarding War has been going for two years already. Hogwarts no longer exists. It was one of the first things he destroyed when the war began. That's when Professor McGonagall . . ." She tails off, eyes sinking down to fix upon the table.

Hermione bites down hard on her bottom lip, trying to control her spiralling thoughts. _Hogwarts destroyed?_ It was almost incomprehensible. However, she could imagine the Dark Lord wishing to obliterate it—the scene of his humiliating demise at the hands of Harry Potter.

"Your father—my son . . . Roland . . . Can you tell me about him?" Hermione dips her head to hide the dread that has suddenly slithered into her stomach.

"In appearance . . . he's very much like Grandpa . . . a younger version . . . but with brown eyes . . . your eyes." Hermione feels Sophia scanning her face, as though confirming her appraisal. "I've been told that when he was young he was very charming . . . clever and funny . . . talented. My mother fell in love with him when they were here at Hogwarts. He was the year ahead of her. Apparently he targeted her from the start."

Hermione finds that she can easily imagine him, her son, in her mind's eye—a young Severus, as charismatic and alluring as her own Severus would have been if he'd not had his confidence shattered so early . . . if he'd received more love and care. But then she realises that no matter how much love her son had received, it clearly hadn't been able to change the outcome.

"Didn't anyone know?" A despairing frown slices through her brow. "Didn't they know his true identity?"

Sophia shakes her head. "He hid it for many years. In fact, you both thought that you'd been mistaken about him. And Harry and Ginny were so happy that their only daughter was in love with your only son . . . It had seemed . . . perfect." She suddenly looks away, focusing on the reflected torches dancing in the darkness of the window. "My father told Harry that it had been satisfying to take Lily Potter from him . . . twice."

Hermione's chest squeezes and tears prickle her eyes. The horror of what they had been through, all of them, is almost too much to bear.

"I haven't seen either of my parents for over two years—since before the war started," Sophia continues, her voice now flat, emotionless. "He took my mother away. No one knows if she went willingly or was forced—if she's alive or dead. He tried to take me too but you fought him—you and Grandpa. I've been living with you both ever since."

Hermione remembers Minerva's comment about Sophia being home-schooled by her grandparents. It makes so much more sense to her now. _But what had happened to Harry and Ginny?_

"What about your other grandparents?" Hermione asks, suddenly missing her good friends so much that it aches. She'd convinced herself that she had been protecting them from her affliction. But perhaps she had simply been running away—too ashamed to accept any of their multitude of invitations—to visit, to stay, to spend time with their children.

"They're both alive at least. I see them occasionally . . . Grandpa Harry mainly," Sophia responds glumly. "Ginny is too upset still. She hasn't recovered from the loss of my mother. She doesn't leave the house very much anymore. Harry comes around as part of the Order meetings. They've reformed . . . to fight my father and his followers. But apparently there are far more of them this time. No one is sure of being able to defeat them . . . not again."

Hermione can't help the profound guilt that permeates her entire being. But still she releases one of Sophia's hands and rests it against her abdomen. "And that's why you're here?" she asks.

"Yes." Sophia sighs heavily, tightening her grip on Hermione's remaining hand. "I've been trying to do what you asked of me. But it's been so . . . hard." Her voice breaks and Hermione leans toward her, rubbing her fingers soothingly across the girl's small hand.

After a few moments, Hermione ducks her head to capture Sophia's watery gaze. "Please tell me what we've asked of you."

Sophia draws a shuddering breath before responding. "You just told me to be myself . . . to behave like a normal student. Not to be too . . . suspicious . . . not to indicate who I was until I'd found out . . . enough. I really tried, but seeing you . . . and Grandpa . . . and having you smile politely at me . . . or not at all in Grandpa's case, has been really difficult."

"I can imagine. And I'm so sorry." Hermione feels even more guilt-ridden for the trauma she has obviously put the girl through. But there had to have been a good reason . . . at least she dearly hopes so.

"You'd told me how difficult things were when you started here—how sad and lonely you'd been, and how confused you were about what was happening to you." Sophia's earnest face breaks her heart. "I thought if I tried to make you feel better—helped you work out what was wrong with you—you might be happier . . . and you would get together with Grandpa quicker."

As Hermione thinks back over her past interactions with Sophia, she realises that they had all been extremely encouraging, in fact the confidence boosts that she'd delivered had, indeed, been the catalysts for some of the key developments in her relationship with Severus.

 _Had her grand-daughter's presence already changed what would naturally have occurred between them?_

"But the main reason I came here is to give you something."

Sophia's gaze now drops away and Hermione has the sense that she isn't going to want to hear what is to come. But she must . . . the girl has clearly been through hell to get here.

"What is it?"

Sophia stares at their hands. "It's . . . a potion."

"What sort of potion?"

Sophia takes a long time to respond, swallowing repeatedly as she works up the courage. When she does speak her voice is little more than a whisper. "Grandpa calls it the 'Soul Stealer.'"

Hermione's hand tightens over her stomach. She feels physically ill.

Her next question slides through barely parted lips. "What does it do?"

"I know what it's supposed to do," Sophia responds. "But what it will actually do . . . Grandpa couldn't be absolutely certain."

"What's it _supposed_ to do?" Hermione speaks more harshly than she intends, having finally exhausted all of her reserves of patience after this day of bombshells.

Sophia finally looks her in the eye. "It's supposed to separate the Dark Lord's soul from your baby . . . to destroy him, whilst preserving your real son."

Hermione's brow furrows as she tries to process the girls' words.

"Are you saying that my baby isn't the Dark Lord?" Her voice is hoarse with emotion.

"Not yet." Sophia manages to look both hopeful and hopeless. "You'll know when it happens. You told me that you felt it . . . you both did . . . when he left you . . . when he let go of you to enter the baby . . . It hasn't happened yet has it?" Her last words are delivered in a rush.

Hermione gives a small, stunned shake of her head.

"Oh, good," Sophia sighs with relief.

Hermione doesn't even know how to respond. "Why is it . . . good?"

"Because there's only a small window of time. Grandpa says you need to take the potion within a day of it happening . . . otherwise the Dark Lord will permanently take hold."

"And what would happen if I took the potion late?"

Sophia looks forlornly at the table. "It would destroy the baby too. Grandpa says it could still happen anyway . . . even if the timing is right. And . . . he also says that there is a risk to you too."

Hermione looks into the girl's eyes and sees her own tears reflected there. She doesn't need to say it. Such an outcome would destroy Sophia also. She would be no more.

"Why would we send you here . . . when there is so much to lose?"

Sophia shakes her head, a defiant edge to her jaw despite her tears. "Grandpa has spent the past ten years brewing the potion. I love him. And he might not know it yet but he loves me. I trust him with my life. I have to. It's my only hope. It's the world's only hope."


	24. Trust and Doubt

_A/N: Hey everyone, apologies for the slow update. RL has been getting in the way. Only a few more chapters to go. DSxx_

* * *

 _Grandpa Severus._

Hermione shakes her head.

 _Grandpa_.

There isn't a doubt in her mind as she descends the shadowed stairwell, hand habitually sliding down to rest against her abdomen . . . he's not ready. Not for this.

It is only a matter of hours since he'd discovered that she was pregnant . . . with his child . . . or with . . . something. And now this . . . equally shocking. A little girl—so like him with her fine, raven locks, and with more than a little of his mystery—revealing now that she has, in fact, travelled back in time . . . here . . . and is masquerading as one of his students.

And she just happens to also be his grand-daughter . . . daughter of his son, Roland . . .Voldemort . . . the Dark Lord.

She still feels faint . . . fainter . . . grazing against the cold stone as she rounds a corner. This is, without a doubt, the most shocking day of her life. There isn't even the possibility of holding it all in her head, let alone processing what needs to be done.

And so she can't tell him. Not now. Not yet.

Even though she is lovely—their grand-daughter. She is so lovely . . . utterly delightful . . . smart and sweet, thoughtful and brave and . . .

She has to stop. She can feel herself choking up again and she can't—she is nearly there. Nearly back at his door.

The girl had waved to her, a small curling fist, blue eyes blinking rapidly before disappearing into the Gryffindor common room. Hermione had promised they'd see each other again . . . very soon. When her head had stopped spinning, and when she'd finally had a chance to—

"Where have you been?"

Hermione hadn't even knocked. Her raised fist hovers by his chest, a firm barrel, thrust forward into the open doorway.

He's clean. Shaved. Showered . . . He is also angry.

"I'm sorry . . . it took longer . . . than expected." She struggles to string the empty words together, her tongue also apparently stunned by the day's events.

"Really? And I suppose 'it' needed to be dealt with immediately?" he snaps. "At this time of night?"

"I just had to talk . . . to someone."

"Someone?"

"I can't . . ." She shakes her head. "Can I just come in, please?"

He looks so distrustful that she wonders how much of this paranoia is his own and how much is the creature that lurks within. _And shouldn't she be just as affected? Shouldn't she feel similarly manipulated? Did she? Does she?_

After a long moment, he steps back a fraction, his stony black gaze following her as she slips through the small gap.

He's clearly had too much time to think, to ruminate. She's been away for a good couple of hours. No doubt he assumes she has been disclosing her 'circumstances' to Minerva—the querulous 'Queen of Interference' in his eyes. He clearly still holds the headmistress responsible for sanctioning the earliest events that had started all this.

As she turns to face him, he crosses his arms expectantly. He wants an explanation. But he's not getting one. _How can she even begin to explain it?_

"There are some things that we need to discuss. But . . . I'm tired," she sighs, her hands hanging limply by her sides.

He snorts disparagingly, as though she is being deliberately abstruse.

"I am. I'm really bloody tired." She takes a step towards him. "I know you don't know what to trust . . . or whom to trust. You don't trust me. You don't even trust yourself. But we need to be together right now. I . . . need you."

His shoulders recoil and then sink as though unsure of whether to be offended or relieved. She guessed that this was it. He'd cleaned himself up. The room was also back in order. He could have responded to her revelations with further desolation. He could have drowned himself in the rest of the bottle, still waiting on his mantel.

But he hadn't, he'd responded by pulling himself together. By stepping up. She had guessed correctly—that he wanted to be needed. That, despite everything . . . he actually wanted this. He possibly even wanted to be a father. He was just terribly conflicted. As was she. And she happened to know far more.

"It doesn't matter anymore." She closes the distance to him. "There's no point in trying to avoid it. The damage has been done."

Weary resignation gradually settles into his features.

"And so . . . a little more damage wouldn't hurt . . . would it?" Her hands rest upon his lean torso and she relishes the warmth. She hasn't felt it, not like this, for too long.

His eyebrow flickers almost imperceptibly. The bright glare in his eyes subsides, melting slowly into those familiar warm dark pools that draw her in. He's back. Her own eyes prickle with the realisation.

"I want you now . . . And I want you properly . . . In your bed." She realises how petulant she sounds but she's too tired to care. She's still hurting from the weeks of neglect. "And I didn't even touch Lucius if you're wondering . . . I was just . . . angry . . . actually I was furious."

His chest expands and contracts under her hands as he gradually relaxes. It feels like acceptance. Perhaps that question had also been there, whipping around with the others in his self-made storm of betrayal.

He says nothing at all. She realises then how little he is able to give. And how impossibly difficult he makes it to know him.

She'd hoped he would be generous enough admit that he hadn't handled the past weeks particularly well. And that he'd been insanely jealous of Lucius.

But he doesn't. Instead the corner of his mouth hitches just a fraction, enough for her to know, and she reaches down and grasps two of his fingers inside her small fist before pulling him toward the bedroom.

He follows.

She realises it might well be the last time he is this placid and cooperative . . . especially when she reveals the full extent of what she knows. But it is her glimpse into the future, a shared future, that gives her the confidence to lead this unpredictable and infinitely complex man into the room she'd shared with Lucius only the night before . . . a lifetime ago.

Despite everything, they must have remained together. According to Sophia, they'd fought together against their son, taken his child in as their own. There must be love . . . even after all the horror, after all those years, there was still love.

And with this knowledge Hermione turns to him, releasing his hand in favour of his chest. She adores the feel of it, the masculine taper to his torso, the lustrous contours—ridges of muscle radiating damp heat through the fabric of his expensive shirt. Sliding up to his neck, she burrows her fingers into the dark locks at his nape, entwining, snagging, before gently tugging, encouraging him to accept the warmth of her waiting lips.

He moves slowly. Not with reluctance but allowing her to guide him. She reads it as trust—his way of trusting her. But she could never ask. It was the most difficult word in the world for him to say . . . no doubt it always had been.

His lips against hers are petal soft after his recent shave . . . almost feminine. But the potency is not. She feels his restraint, the bold strength held in check, that which had slammed her relentlessly, fucking her into the door only the previous evening. _Who knew what had driven him—the need to possess or possession itself?_

Whatever it was, it continues to throb now—just below the surface . . . tempered, simmering. She responds with a stirring intensity of her own, dearly wanting for it all to be real . . . without the insidious manipulation . . . just their real selves—expressing real passion . . . for one another.

And as his mouth opens, lips and tongue covetously claiming hers, she releases a moan of such mournful need that it shocks her . . . her anguish manifesting as desire, rare and raw. Unable to wait, she begins unbuttoning her dress with one hand, the other remaining locked within his hair.

Her exhalations are muffled against his skin as she attempts to breathe without breaking contact. She would never have expected to want him so much—this surly, stand-offish sourpuss. But she had seen too much of him—too much consideration and kindness, too much naked passion, to let him go. And for all intents and purposes, he was also the father of her child. And it was still her child . . . their child . . . until . . .

She rips the remainder of her dress open and shrugs out of it, bra and knickers following with quick yanks in her desperation to force away her intrusive thoughts—to have him fuck them clear out of her consciousness. And he seems just as intent, shedding his shirt, trousers and boxers with a single deft stroke before kicking aside his boots and reaching for her, one warm hand engulfing her breast, the other grasping her buttocks to pull her close.

Close. Touching. And . . . without pain.

It would have been a monumental relief if she hadn't known exactly what it meant.

Her hypersensitivity was diminishing.

The parasitic hold on her was slipping.

 _What had Sophia said?_ That she would know. She would feel it as he transitioned—the Dark Lord's soul moving from her into her baby.

 _Was Severus feeling it too?_

She breaks away from him, eyes roving over his flushed features, searching for any indication . . . whether he understands. He responds with a subtle flexion of his fingers against her buttock.

 _Is he aware? Deliberately touching her where he hadn't previously?_

But she gleans nothing more as he surges forward, his mouth taking hers once again, resuming their passionate union.

He needs to know. She wants to tell him. But the words stick in her throat, escaping as tiny grunts, fragments of sound that slip from her lips into his. But there is nothing that can be done . . . not yet . . . not until it is complete.

And that thought, that crawling sense that her body has been misappropriated, drives her need to demonstrate, once and for all, that she is still in control—to express her desires as clearly and emphatically as possible.

She pushes him. Severus falls backwards onto the bed, the air escaping him with a surprised grunt.

"What—?"

But the question is cut short as she mounts him.

She claims him with her thighs, straddling him, clamping his hips with a fierce determination that leaves no room for misinterpretation. Her claim over his cock—its solid girth now pinioned against his stomach by both hands, gathered at the wrists as though wielding a fleshy sceptre—is equally ardent.

His expressive eyebrow flexes upward, mirroring the intrigue in the sexy hitch of his mouth. She takes it as approval—for a side of her that he has not yet encountered. Indeed, one that she hasn't known, herself, in a very long time.

Her hands slide forward, constricting as they encroach the bulb of his head, before relaxing and receding like water on a beach. She repeats the motion once, twice, before spreading her thighs to position her clitoris over the base of his shaft. The next time her fists advance, she dips down to glide her swollen nub against him, rubbing it up the length of his cock and back.

She gathers from his response—the simultaneous flare of his eyelashes and nostrils—that her efforts are to his liking. As she rides him, she curls her hands under his member to lever it upwards, pressing his solid flesh more forcefully between her labia. It draws him upward, his back arching a little from the bed as a sigh slips past his deliciously parted lips.

Seeing the opening, she takes it. Leaning down, she delves her tongue into the hot cavern of his mouth, the deliberate incursion making him moan—a guttural vibration that radiates through his throat and jaw, driving her to rub her leaking slot even harder against him.

The forceful rocking of her hips, together with the firm attention of her hands on his cock, has his palms gliding down her back to claim her buttocks, long fingers curling into her flesh each time she returns to grind her arousal against his base. And when she sits back up and begins to massage his pearlescent head against her palm, drawing out a steady trickle of precum, he groans and suddenly relocates both hands to her front, grasping her thigh and breast at once, as though pleading for relief.

Only now does she notice her own ragged breathing, the harsh susurration combining with his in the otherwise silent room, and realise that they are both ready . . . well and truly.

Raising herself on exhausted but determined thighs, she tilts his cock until she can feel his bold head butting into her entrance. But despite her inordinate level of arousal, lubrication already coating everything including his cock, she finds that the stretch as he enters her, as she eases down onto him, is both sharp and exquisite.

"Uhhh, Severus," she groans as she curls her nails into his chest.

She has never been in this position, on top of him, before—although she'd certainly thought about it in the past. Even when he was bed-ridden in the hospital wing, she had imagined what it would be like to fuck him. It had never happened . . . but still they'd managed to be intimate enough to create this inexplicable bond.

She realises now that even though the true nature of their connection is horrifying, it had brought her back to him, and drawn them together . . . and truthfully, despite everything, she wouldn't want it any other way.

Leaning forward, she places a hand on each of his broad shoulders so that her face is positioned above his—so that she can look into his eyes as she slowly fucks him.

The all-consuming intimacy of it, his cock embedded so incredibly deeply inside her, the muscles of her sheath already grabbing at him, squeezing him as though unwilling to let him go, the inexorable sense of a merging consciousness as she sinks into the dark pools of his eyes, draws tears into her own.

His hand cups her cheek, thumb resting against her parted lips.

"I'm sorry," he whispers.

He means it, his features pinch with pain.

"I'm not," she responds. "I'm not sorry about any of it . . . As long as we're together . . . all of us."

She sees that her words reach him. But he doesn't recoil from the insinuation. Perhaps he has already considered something else . . . something to ensure that they will remain together.

 _I love you, Severus_. She tells him with her eyes but the words remain inside her, unspoken. After all, she had loved him before and lost him. But in an effort to show him, she speeds up the thrusting of her hips, pushing herself upright so that she can drive him into her more forcefully. His eyelids shutter and he releases a growl of such blatant desire that her insides clench with longing.

Fuelled by his need for her, Hermione grips his shaft with her core as tightly as she can and drags herself up and down until their strident gasps and moans reach a tremulous peak. Just as she mounts the final precipice, her thighs shuddering from the strain, he thrusts up to meet her, once, twice, and is there.

"I . . . love you."

The words spill from his lips as he surges into her and she cries out in response, a wail of monumental proportions that declares nothing and everything. Even as her entire body seizes and convulses, she finds herself collapsing onto him, into his arms, wanting to be against him, with him, within him.

And as she lies there, her exhausted breaths unfurling across his chest, her cheek resting against one of his many scars, she feels him pull her even closer. It is a level of contact she hasn't known in years, a closeness she hasn't felt perhaps her entire life. And as she melts into him, trying to internalise the feeling of protection, of love, she is suddenly flooded with a deep sadness—a sense that the fullness of what faces them may be too much . . . that what she is set to reveal may once again drive them apart.

And then she realises with a pang of fear that the future she has been clinging on to is not at all assured. Sophia has changed it, already. And her presence may be just enough to undo everything . . . to undermine it all.


	25. More and Less

"What in Merlin's name—?!"

Her face hits the sheets as he jerks out from under her.

She screws her eyes closed. The last thing she'd wanted was to ruin it.

She'd spent the night—entwined within his long limbs, ensconced within the protective curve of his body, her fingers interlaced with his, lips seeking him out in the dark, when and where she'd needed. It had been utter bliss—a dream. And she'd revelled in it, knowing that it wasn't to last.

Indeed her reluctant revelations just now—delivered in a rush, everything from her time with Sophia murmured against the plane of his broad chest as her fingers had threaded anxiously through the fine hair curling into his navel—had done just that . . . ruined everything.

She rolls over. He is standing beside the bed, hands on hips, muscles clenched in consternation.

"That is the most ludicrous thing I've ever heard," he growls. "Did that meddling witch put you up to this? Tell you to concoct some ridiculous story in an attempt to avoid the inevitable?"

Hermione sits up abruptly. "What do you mean?"

"Minerva!" His head jerks forward as though spitting the name at her. "You were with her for long enough. No doubt trying to formulate a plan . . . a way of keeping it."

"Keeping it?"

"The baby!" A hectic flush rushes to his cheeks. "You want to keep the baby . . . But you can't . . . We can't." His voice falters as he whirls away from her. "We have no choice."

"But Sophia—"

"Sophia?" He spins back around. "Oh yes, the intrepid time traveller—come from the past to save the day. If this is, indeed, her doing then you're more gullible than I thought. She's an attention seeker. She's extremely bright, a know-it-all, not unlike someone else." He glares at her meaningfully. "No doubt she's managed to reel you in with her likeness, her bizarre imagination, her self-important ramblings. Can't you see that this is farcical?"

"How would she know?" Hermione demands. "How would she know about the baby? About Roland? About Harry and Ginny? She has a fucking time turner!" Hermione thumps the bed with her fist. "I saw it!"

He shakes his head, scowling deeply.

"You can't have it both ways, Severus," Hermione cries. "Which is it? Which of us is trying to deceive you? Minerva . . . Myself . . . Sophia?"

He glares at her, jaw clenching fiercely, before he suddenly hisses in frustration and snatches up his clothes from the floor.

"Where are you going?" Hermione scrambles out of the bed to follow him.

By the time she enters the lounge he is fully dressed and reaching for the handle to his chambers.

"Where are you going, Severus?" she repeats emphatically.

"It's about time Minerva explained herself," he snarls.

* * *

"I've been expecting you." Minerva's green eyes flick back and forth between the two of them. The greeting is disconcerting enough to stop Severus in his tracks, while Hermione gasps from the effort of attempting to keep up with him as he'd stormed through the castle.

"Please take a seat," Minerva continues evenly, stepping back to allow them into her office.

Severus and Hermione make their way in, glancing at the steaming teapot and cups already set on the headmistress' desk, and the two chairs positioned facing her own. Clearly they had been expected.

"Now." Minerva turns to face them. "Can I offer you tea?"

Severus shakes his head as he sits.

"No thank you," Hermione murmurs.

"Well, then . . . perhaps I should begin by telling you what I know." Minerva takes her seat and folds her hands on the desk. "I have spoken with Sophia this morning and she informs me that you are now aware of her true identity. Is that the case?"

Hermione begins to answer but Severus interrupts. "No, that is not the case."

Minerva levels her eyes at him. "I see. You mentioned that you might have some trouble accepting this news."

He leans forward. "I don't understand—"

"I'll stop you there." Minerva rises from her chair and moves around to the front of her desk, before leaning against it with a sigh as though suddenly very tired.

"Sophia arrived at Hogwarts at the beginning of this year. Alone. She brought with her two letters. One from yourself, Severus, and one from you, Hermione. They were dated 2039." She pauses, allowing her words to sink in. "Both letters were long, describing the events of the past three decades. Much of it centred around the return of the Dark Lord and the fact that he was, in fact, your son. I'm not going to pretend that I wasn't initially disbelieving. It was, after all, shocking. But after reading them both, talking at length with Sophia, and seeing that she was in possession of my own time turner, I was left in little doubt that it was the truth. Your letter, Hermione, informed me that you would be seeking my assistance to return to Hogwarts as a teacher—only days later did I receive your owl to that effect. Severus . . ." She peers at him over her glasses. "You mentioned several times in your letter that you would be the one to have difficulty accepting this news."

He leaps up from his chair in agitation. "Where are these supposed letters?"

"They have been destroyed," Minerva responds coolly. "You requested for it to be so . . . indicating that there could be severe repercussions if they fell into the wrong hands."

"How convenient," Severus sneers.

"You are a Legilimens." Minerva's piercing gaze addresses him. "Feel free to check. Otherwise, I'll be happy to retrieve Albus' Pensieve."

Severus glares at her but accepts neither offer. "So I simply mentioned in my letter was that I would have some difficulty accepting what was contained within my letter. It seems that I must have become rather dim-witted in my old age."

"Not at all. You also happened to apologise in advance for the fact that you would be accusing me of being an interfering old cow." Severus falters slightly, clearly jolted by the truth of her words. "Considering I was simply following your directions."

His eyes narrow as he attempts to decipher her meaning. "What directions?"

"You both asked for this." Minerva spreads her arms wide. "You asked for me to force you together, to encourage you to work in close proximity, for your living quarters to be arranged as such."

"But you said it was Hermione's request to reside in the Dungeons."

"It was. In the letter!" Minerva cries in exasperation. "I'm sorry if you considered it discourteous to place you in a storeroom, Hermione, but you did, in fact, ask for it." She regards Hermione sympathetically. "But while we're at it, may I just say that when you accused me of placing students at risk by not keeping records, when it was you, yourself, who placed me in that position, I was just about ready to throw this entire thing in!"

Minerva suddenly tears off her glasses, holding them in her fist to point at each of them in turn. "This has been extremely difficult. I've done this for both of you, at your request." She is as close to tears as Hermione has ever seen her. Clearly the stress of what they had asked of her had taken its toll. "Now all I ask is that you listen to Sophia and follow her instructions. She is an exceptional child. And she's risked her life to be here . . . I hope you both understand that."

Hermione rises to grasp the older woman's hand.

But Severus still isn't ready to accept her words.

"Why would we request such a thing?" he asks, gentler but still accusing. "Especially considering what we now know about the dangers of our union. Why would we want to risk the resurrection of the Dark Lord? It's nonsensical."

Minerva sighs again. "The details you provided weren't clear but I believe the word you used was 'containment.' There was an indication that if you didn't come together quickly enough, the Dark Lord's influence would spread to others."

"Others?" Severus frowns. "To whom?"

"If you really want to know." Minerva rubs her glasses briskly before returning them to her face. "Lucius Malfoy was mentioned."

Severus immediately fixes his black gaze upon Hermione who turns her palms upward in surprise. "I didn't . . ."

Minerva takes a step toward him. "Severus, don't you see? This was all pre-emptive—to prevent what happened the first time, to ensure that you could take the required measures to contain and eliminate the Dark Lord once and for all."

Severus' hands prop on his hips as he whirls away, attempting to process the explanation. "And how exactly did I intend to eliminate the Dark Lord." Each word drips with patent skepticism. ". . . Once and for all?"

In response, Minerva slips her wand from her sleeve and flicks it at the wall. A painting of an opening flower flips forward, revealing a safe. Another flick of her wand sets the various knobs and levers on its surface in motion before the door finally swings open to reveal the contents—a wooden chest and a small potion bottle.

Striding across the room, Minerva takes the bottle and holds it up for them to see. "I understand you call it the 'Soul Stealer.'"

Hermione's eyes dart to Severus. She hadn't had an opportunity to tell him this part.

He approaches Minerva, retrieving the bottle from her fingers before lifting it to peer closely at the swirling, smoky liquid. "Soul Stealer? But this is ancient magic . . . extremely dangerous."

He drags his eyes away to look at Hermione. "Did you know about this?"

Hermione delivers a small, apologetic nod.

"And this is intended to destroy the Dark Lord?"

Hermione approaches him. "Yes . . . whilst preserving the remaining soul . . . that of our real son."

His eyes widen. "But that isn't how such potions work. They are unable to discriminate. It'll consume all three souls . . . Voldemort, the baby and . . . yours. This will kill all three of you."

"No." Hermione shakes her head, feeling her throat constrict at the horror on his face. "You have been brewing it for ten years . . . You have . . . worked it out." She can hear the anguished hope in her own voice.

He looks at her incredulously. "Worked it out? I'm an old man. I write ridiculous indecipherable letters. You can't possibly mean to take this." His fingers curl into a despairing fist as he approaches her. "A simple termination potion would suffice. The baby would cease to exist—and Voldemort also. I could prepare one easily—over the next few days. There would be no risk to you . . . None at all."

Hermione reaches up and grips his hand, slowly prising the bottle from his fingers. "I need to give our son a chance, Severus. And Sophia . . . They both deserve a chance."

His face contorts as he takes in the sad conviction in her eyes.

"But how can you possibly trust her?" His pale lips draw back. "If she is, indeed, whom you say—the daughter of Voldemort—how can you trust that this potion will do as she claims? How do you know it isn't designed to assist his rise to power? To enhance his potency?"

"She is in our care, Severus. We have taken her in as our own," Hermione murmurs gently, stepping forward to place a hand upon his chest. "I trust her."

He backs away. "What, then, if it doesn't work? What if it has no effect whatsoever? Perhaps we will have no indication until he makes himself known? Then all this will have been for nought." He sweeps his hand dismissively. "The world will have been spared nothing."

"Not . . . quite."

They spin around at Minerva's voice. She hasn't moved from her position by the safe. Directing her wand at the chest inside, she levitates it over to her desk before flipping the lock.

Cautiously Severus and Hermione approach. Both frown at the contents before regarding the older woman.

"I thought we were skint?" Severus' baritone is sharp.

"We were." Minerva approaches, placing a hand atop the pile of gold bars that fill the chest. "Together with the letters, Sophia brought these. It appears that you have been stockpiling resources, with the purpose of sending them back to assist the effort against Voldemort . . . as a safeguard. And you also happened to provide very specific instructions about what was to be done to protect us—to prevent the fall of Hogwarts."

"And yet you have had us growing plants and brewing potions in an attempt to make ends meet?" Severus glares at her accusingly.

Minerva sighs before nodding reluctantly. "I'm afraid that I initially had difficulty accepting that I would require your . . . generosity. To me, it indicated that, despite my best efforts, I must never have managed to get Hogwarts back on its feet . . . that I hadn't been able to protect it, or the children. It was . . . difficult to accept." She gives a small shrug. "And truth be told, Severus, the requirement for more brewing did seem to be an excellent excuse to get you two working together."

Severus snorts disparagingly. "Yet another manipulation."

"And it is probably just as well that we weren't in great need, as I haven't seen you produce anything in weeks," she retorts brusquely.

Hermione glances at Severus whose eyes drop away in embarrassment. "We've been a little . . . distracted," she admits quietly.

Minerva removes her glasses again, rubbing her eyelids wearily with her fingertips. "I do apologise. I have been under rather a lot of strain. But I have no doubt that it pales in comparison to what you are both going through. And, indeed, what that little girl has had to endure. I just wanted to make it clear that you care." Her glassy eyes move between the two of them but settle upon Severus' rigid form. "Despite what living hell you are going through in the future, Severus, you care about what happens. You care about Hogwarts. You care about the children. And you care about me . . . your letter revealed the exact day that I must leave. The day that would have been my demise. And . . ." She swallows with difficulty. "Of course I am eternally grateful."

Hermione sees his shoulders drop a little in resignation.

"And you care about Sophia . . . very much." Minerva brushes her hand across both eyes.

Severus remains silent for a long moment before he finally lifts his gaze to Hermione.

"How can you put all your trust in one little girl?" His eyes implore her, plead with her.

"I haven't." Hermione looks at him intently, with a fierce devotion that she feels to her core. "I have put my trust in you."

He stares, his lips twitching with emotion.

"You're the most brilliant man I know. And you have brewed this for me." She regards the bottle in her hand. "Therefore, I will take it."

He draws a shuddering breath before reaching out and removing the bottle from her hand. Then, with a final, tortured glance, he turns and leaves the room.


	26. Known and Unknown

A/N: Only one chapter to go after this, folks. Thanks for reading, DSxx

* * *

The following morning. It happens.

Hermione is standing at the front of her classroom, gazing at the heads bent studiously over their parchments whilst scribing from their Muggle history texts, when she feels it—a distinct shift inside her. The sensation is so profound, like the painful grasp of a hand suddenly released, a pervasive weight instantly lifted, that she reaches for the desk to steady herself before sinking into her chair.

The only person who seems to notice is Sophia. The girl's eyes lock with hers from across the classroom. She knows—the sombre understanding is written all over her small, pale face.

Less than thirty seconds later the classroom door bursts open. Severus stops two paces in, hair jolting forward around wide, questioning eyes. Despite his stillness, it is clear from the rise and fall of his chest that he has been running. He must have felt it too . . . the release . . . and come to find her.

By now the rest of the students have become aware of the rare intrusion into their classroom and are looking between the two of them with intrigue.

"I . . . I believe that you have all worked so diligently this morning," Hermione forces a smile and attempts to relax her white-knuckled fists, still clamping tightly to the edge of her desk, "that you have earned yourselves an early minute. You are free to go."

A few questioning glances flicker between students but they are excited to be dismissed early and pack up quickly. Within a minute they are gone.

All except Sophia.

Slowly, the girl makes her way to the front of the room, books clamped protectively against her chest.

When she stops, the three of them stand in a silent triangle, none willing to speak, the gravity of the moment and what it signifies seemingly beyond the scope of mere words.

Seeing Sophia's diminutive form start to shake, Hermione quickly moves to her and removes the books from her arms, before pulling her close and embracing her tightly. The girl isn't crying, not yet, rather Hermione suspects that she has submitted to the worrying realisation that this is the culmination of her brave undertaking, and that she must now return to a future that is by no means assured. Indeed, it may not exist at all.

Hermione gathers her as close as she can before murmuring into her ear, "Thank you so much Sophia . . . Thank you for everything."

"I just wanted you to be proud of me," Sophia responds, her voice small and tremulous. "Both of you."

Hermione presses Sophia's dark head against her chest, looking tearfully at Severus whose grave features betray little.

"And we are . . . we're so proud of you," Hermione rasps, barely able to formulate the words. "Everything you have done here has been so very brave."

"That's why I'm a . . . Gryffindor." Sophia releases the last word in a breathy sob. "Like you."

Hermione can't respond. The ache in her chest is too much. She struggles to breathe.

They stand, crying together, locked in despair until Sophia finally lifts her head to regard Hermione, her tear streaked face and shining blue eyes a desolate image that Hermione knows she will carry like a weight around her heart from that day forward.

"I must return now," the girl murmurs hoarsely, her voice wrung out by sadness. "To tell everyone what has happened. And to say . . . goodbye."

Hermione nods, her face working to try to provide reassurance. "Of course."

"And . . . Professor?" Sophia shuffles backwards and turns toward Severus, her head inclined shyly. Hermione's heart breaks for the girl. This is the first time she has spoken to him since revealing her identity. His face is stony.

"I thought you ought to know." She approaches him. "My name is Sophia Leena."

Hermione sees him instantly draw breath.

"I'm named for your mother. You told me that was her preferred name." She gives him a sad smile. ". . . That she always thought Eileen was so old-fashioned."

A switch is suddenly flipped. It is as though, until now, he has managed to refute it all on some level . . . but that this small but powerful piece of information somehow shatters the foundations for his denial, causing the walls to crumble—spectacularly.

He is upon her in a flash, down on one knee, holding her securely in his strong arms. She grabs him with similar desperation, small fists clutching at his clothing, clearly missing this man that she loves.

Hermione's hand presses to her lips as she is moved to further tears by the unprecedented display of affection.

"I didn't know," he murmurs into her ear. "I'm sorry."

The girl just squeezes him tighter as he soothingly strokes her hair.

"You don't need to be afraid." His voice is so soft, so gentle, Hermione barely knows it. "We will do as you intended. We will take the potion."

Sophia nods against his shoulder.

"Did you assist . . . to brew it?"

She nods again.

"I imagine we work very well together." A faint smile curls his lips as he looks wistfully over her shoulder. "It will perform as intended. There is no reason for concern."

Her small body visibly relaxes against him.

"When you return . . . tell them that we will do whatever is required . . . to ensure that everyone is safe."

She doesn't seem to want to let him go.

"We will see you again, Sophia." He holds her away slightly so he can look her in the eye. "I want you to believe me."

After a long pause in which Hermione marvels at the likeness between the two pale, dark haired individuals who have come to mean so much to her in such a short space of time, the girl delivers a small nod and finally releases him. Her face is slack. She is clearly exhausted.

Drawing a shaky breath, she tucks her fingers into the collar of her shirt and pulls out the gold chain of the time turner.

Hermione approaches. She and Severus come together, placing their arms around Sophia's shoulders in such a natural embrace that she imagines an identical show of closeness and solidarity occurring decades into the future.

Grasping the small hourglass in her fingers, Sophia gazes up at them both. "I love you," she whispers, before rapidly spinning the time piece forward.

Hermione attempts to respond through the constriction in her throat but the space between them suddenly vacates. Sophia has gone.

* * *

His large hand grasps hers from across the table.

He watches her closely as she lifts the fork to her mouth.

"Good?"

Hermione's eyelids flutter closed as she moans. "Gods. Who made this? You didn't nip out to see Jacob did you?" She places another forkful of the mouth-watering risotto into her mouth.

"Of course not," he mutters, finally tasting his own.

"Actually, I didn't think it possible." She lifts his hand for emphasis, shaking it as though in greeting. "But this might be even better than Vincent's." She moans again. "Severus, this is, literally, the best risotto I've ever tasted. Where did you get it?"

"I made it."

She drops both her fork and his hand together. "You?"

"Yes." He looks slightly offended.

"You can cook?"

His eyebrows shoot up in indignation. "Have you never observed me brewing? Following a precise and orderly sequence to achieve a perfect outcome?"

She grins. "Well . . . of course I have but . . . this is just . . . Uhhh." She allows her eyes to roll back in her head.

He suddenly chuckles, a rare display of relaxed amusement, before resuming eating.

Despite her hunger, she doesn't retrieve her own fork, her hand now curling into a fist of intrigue next to her plate as she watches him.

After Sophia had gone, he had embraced her for a long time. She'd needed it. It seemed that he did too. He'd then asked her to seek out Minerva—to explain what had happened and to request that their classes be covered for the remainder of the day. He had also suggested that she make any other preparations she needed to, but asked that she return to his chambers by lunch time.

To be greeted by this. A beautifully laid table. Steaming plates of risotto. A lovely chilled wine. Merlin knew where he'd found the ingredients, or how he'd managed to cook them, but it was perfect.

And she had the sense that it represented many things. An apology of sorts. An opportunity to impress, perhaps. But, above all, a demonstration of his kind and caring nature that unfortunately was often overshadowed by the more caustic parts of his personality . . . as well as a moment to be together before they faced the inevitable . . . the unknown.

It feels both wonderful and deeply painful. The fact that he had spent the entire previous day, and long into the night, intensively testing and studying the potion, the surprisingly tender moments that she'd witnessed between he and Sophia, together with the thoughtfulness of this meal together . . . the combination swells within her heart until it feels tight, on the verge of rupture.

She grasps and squeezes his hand, trying to convey her feelings. But "Thank you" is all she manages.

He nods. It is not at all dismissive. But watchful. His concern is evident.

She gazes back at him, loving him for it. For everything . . . and suddenly realises the significance of that understanding.

"I still love you," she murmurs, her voice rising in wonder.

His eyelids shutter slightly in confusion before he opens his mouth to respond. But she is already out of her chair, around the table and squeezing onto his lap between his stomach and the plate. "Don't you see!" she crows excitedly. "I no longer feel him and yet I still love you! It's not him. It's us. It's been us all along!"

His face changes. A slow transformation that gradually shreds the mask of tension that has commandeered his features over the past weeks. He looks relieved . . . and contrite . . . and . . . boyishly sexy. And finally he pulls her to him. She welcomes the crushing impact of his lips against hers, the raw passion as his tongue plunges into her. His hands are everywhere, clawing and tearing at her clothes. In no time, her breasts and bush are exposed and his mouth instantly engulfs one straining nipple, hot and hungry like some blood-lusted vampire but without the penetration . . . yet.

Enraptured, Hermione's head lolls to the side like a marionette with her strings cut, but it instantly snaps to attention as he slips two desperate digits inside her. She surges forward to assist his penetration—unafraid for the first time in years that he will hurt her. Her body is finally hers, and hers alone. And the knowledge makes her reckless—she wants him to take her hard.

But she can't. Not yet.

"Severus . . ." she murmurs breathily.

"Mmmm?" His mouth is already devouring her other breast.

"Can you—? . . . Ohhhh."

His fingers find her G-spot and she is suddenly rendered speechless, her only sound a deep groan of pleasure.

Attempting to regain her composure despite his relentless rubbing and sucking, she finally manages to gasp, "Risotto!"

He releases her breast with a wet slurp. "Yes?"

"Can you shift it . . .?" She twists around to look mournfully at her abandoned plate. "Possibly put it somewhere safe? I want to finish it. Everything."

With a wry grin, he conducts their food and drinks over to the safety of his desk.

She sighs with relief before primly informing him, "Now you may proceed."

"Proceed? . . . With . . . what . . . exactly?" His voice is low and sultry as his fingers return, curling inside her again, making her brow furrow in agonised ecstasy. "This?"

"Yes," she moans, her eyes squeezing closed. "Except . . . I might need your cock . . . soon."

The pressure inside her is already mounting, and whilst she wouldn't say no to an orgasm at his hands, she finds that the delicious fullness of him is what she needs right now. And clearly he of the same opinion as he instantly withdraws to cup her buttocks, lifting her onto the edge of the table.

A moment later, he releases his cock and she feels the velvety warmth of his shaft skim her inner thigh. Her mouth and pussy instantly start to water for him. Propping her arms on the table behind herself, Hermione shuffles back a little before lifting her heels onto the edge of the table and spreading her legs in welcome. She wants him to take her sitting up as she can't bear the thought of any distance between them. Not now. Not after everything they have been through.

Severus places a hand on the table behind her buttocks to steady himself before leaning into her, guiding the head of his cock through her slick folds. Even as he eases forward, breaching the taut entrance to her pussy, his eyes never leave hers.

Her own eyelids flutter and then sink lower as he sinks deeper. It is such a pure union, no longer tainted by sensory or psychological reservations, that it feels like he is finally returning, coming home. Her legs immediately wrap around his hips to force him deeper, and the corners of his mouth tick up as he is captured to the hilt, the pleasure evident in the lift of his noble nose, the breathy reverberation from his chest. One of his hands slips behind her neck, pulling her into his hungry lips as his hips flex backwards before plunging into her again.

"Unnhhh."

Her groan, muffled by his mouth, comes over and over as he pumps into her—quick, powerful snaps of his hips until her hand is scrabbling for the side of the table in an effort to brace herself against his growing momentum.

Soon they are forced to separate to draw gasping breaths, his urgent rhythm jolting into her until her entire pelvis is a fiery ball of friction.

His forehead drops to rest against hers as he emphatically grinds her clitoris with his pubic bone at the end of each long, deep stroke.

She whimpers, closing her eyes. It is glorious.

But then she feels them . . . falling down her cheeks as though they are her own.

Her eyes spring open. More drops fall. His. He is weeping, drawing in shuddering breaths as he continues to thrust into her.

"Severus?" Her hand curls around his clenched jaw. "What's wrong?"

He shakes his head a little, rubbing against her.

"I don't want to lose you." His voice is strained, little more than a whisper.

"But . . . you won't . . . you told Sophia—"

"I know what I told her," he interrupts, intense emotion searing his words. "I had to. I had to reassure her. She needed that comfort."

"So it's not . . . safe? The potion?" Hermione ducks her head in an attempt to interrupt his downcast gaze.

He shakes his head desolately. "I could verify nothing beyond the fact that it is what it claims to be—a Soul Stealer. The risks of taking it are still extreme."

Hermione finds herself far more upset by his sadness than by his words. She has already made her decision and accepted it after all.

"I believe in you, Severus." Her thumb strokes his cheek. "You love me now. And I believe you love me in the future. You wouldn't ask me to take it unless you were sure. You need to trust yourself."

He stands perfectly still, gazing down at her, and she feels his heart so open that her own eyes immediately fill.

"Please show me you love me," she whispers.

After a long moment he wraps both arms around her and holds her as close as he can as he resumes thrusting. Despite the emotion, or perhaps because of it, Hermione finds that she is already close to coming. The desperate surges of his cock into her and the grip of his strong arms make her feel so loved, so needed that the sensation winds through her entire body until it wraps around the firmness inside her, his firmness, his desire for her, and she responds. A rasping cry full of need tears from her throat as the orgasm captures her, making her buck against him, her pussy wrenching at him, at the relentless determination of his cock that continues to drive home, prolonging her stimulation until she collapses with a final shudder. Rolling her heavy head back, she focuses upon him, revelling in the intensity of his endeavours, his need to show her . . . and finally his release.

It is the most emphatic she has ever experienced. His cry is both mournful and longing as he drives into her, pulling her tightly to him. Twitching and surging, his cock ejects more of his beautiful seed inside her—that which has healed her, enhanced her, and has given her the chance at this . . . at motherhood . . . at having a family once again.

* * *

Hermione floats.

The water is warmer this time. Hot actually—reflecting the fact that she need no longer worry about her body screaming out in pain. Instead her skin ripples deliciously at the sensation, her muscles relaxing as the tension seeps from them like melting ice.

She places her hands upon her stomach. Full. Not of baby—he's still only tiny. But of risotto. She'd eaten all of hers. And quite a bit of Severus'. It really was the most delicious meal she could remember having . . . with the most delicious dining partner she could imagine.

He wouldn't be long. He'd said so. And he would bring it with him.

Hermione closes her eyes and listens. In her previous state, she would be able to hear his footsteps. But now she hears nothing—except for the bubbly whines of her digestive system trying to cope with the sudden risotto-lanche she has subjected it to.

Finally the bathroom door opens and he is there—frown intact—as she knew it would be.

This is extremely difficult for both of them. But, she suspects, more difficult for him. He'd always worn the weight of responsibility extremely heavily. She'd known it even as a student.

Now he approaches with a slow stoicism that matches his perpetually formal attire, but not the image she holds in her mind's eye of him furiously fucking her. The contrast is still deeply appealing despite the gravity of their situation.

She sits up in the bath, slicking her hair back, before holding out her hand to him. After a pause in which he considers her intently, he dips into his pocket, withdrawing the small bottle and handing it to her. She nods her thanks and then inclines her head at the bath. He obliges by starting to undress.

She has seen him undress in the past in a second flat so this is certainly a delaying tactic but she hardly minds. The sight of her darkly handsome wizard, the father of her child, slowly disrobing, shedding his skin, revealing swathes of porcelain wrapped muscle, is not at all difficult to cope with. She doesn't see his imperfections at all—not the scores, the scars, or even the faded remains of the Dark Mark. They are all part of him . . . the him that is hers.

Finally naked, he dips a foot into the bath.

"Fuck, that's hot!"

A burst of laughter flies from her lips as she quickly casts a cooling charm.

"A bit sensitive, are we?" She grins mischievously.

He fixes her with his dark stare and she sees a hundred retorts fly through his mind, most relating to 'pots' and 'kettles' she suspects.

He suffices with a derisive snort before stepping in and sinking down, the water rising and his legs sliding forward until they are enveloping hers.

She continues to smile at him. This could be the best or the worst moment of her life. She chooses to believe the former. His face suggests that he has chosen the latter.

"We could draw this out." She lets her free hand sink under the water until it curls comfortably around his calf. "We have a 24-hour window after all."

He doesn't respond but his foot rubs gently against her side.

"But I see no point," she continues. "I'd rather get it over with."

He inclines his head. "It is your decision."

She inhales deeply. She can't pretend that she isn't at least a little apprehensive. His expression certainly isn't filling her with confidence.

"Just know . . . no matter what happens. . ." She squeezes his calf. "I don't regret a thing. None of it. As it has all led me to this moment, with you, where I have a chance to make things better . . . for us . . . for our son . . . for Sophia . . . for everyone."

He swallows, his eyebrows sliding up in the middle so that his frown turns to sad resignation. She suspects that he wants to dissuade her but is aware that it is pointless.

Lifting herself up onto her knees, she leans forward before crawling up his body until she is lying on top of him. His arms are instantly around her. He kisses her deeply and she wonders what it would be like to lie like this with him forever. Bliss.

Holding onto that thought with grim determination, she asks him to remove the stopper from the bottle.

Severus gazes down at her, lying on his chest, brown, deeply trusting eyes caressing him with her love—so open and honest. And he loves her. He could say it to her over and over again but it wouldn't change a thing. She could still be taken from him . . . stolen . . . as was the nature of the Soul Stealer.

But it wouldn't be for long. The blade was in his pocket. A simple slice into his artery would have him slipping away in minutes. He wouldn't be far behind her. She wouldn't be alone.

"I'll be here . . . Always," he assures her, removing the cork.

She smiles. It's so sweet and genuine that he feels himself spontaneously returning it despite his sadness.

"To us." She lifts the bottle in a small toast.

Then pours the smoky contents into her mouth.


	27. Chapter 27 - Epilogue

_A/N: And so we reach the end of another story. Thank you so much to all of you who have supported and encouraged me along the way with your comments and reviews. This fic was difficult. The emotions within it pretty well reflect a lot of what I've been going through lately. However, I hope you've enjoyed reading it, as I've found writing it to be very therapeutic. I've tried a few new things like the present tense throughout (which was more difficult than I thought it would be). Any final thoughts or comments on this story would be greatly appreciated. Until next time. Take care, DSxx_

* * *

 ** _32 years later_**

 _Click-clack_. _Click-clack_.

Hermione stops to give a practised tug to the ball of wool in her lap before her fingers continue to work in a nimble blur.

Severus draws a long finger down his nose before stopping at the tip and tapping it thoughtfully. His book rests on the arm of the chair between them so that they can both read, though Hermione misses parts as she stops to appraise her knitting and he turns the page too soon. It doesn't matter, the book is by a dry, rather opinionated, historian whom she doesn't care much for.

Severus gives a scoffing snort.

"Well, that's a lie." He jabs at the page with his finger. "It didn't happen like that at all. I should know. I was there."

"Why do you read it, then?" Hermione spreads the knitting over her needle to check for dropped stitches.

"Because I like to be informed." He peers over his glasses at her.

"No you don't. You like to be indignant. You're just trying to find errors."

The corner of his mouth hitches up. He would never admit it but she is absolutely right. He holds her gaze for a moment longer before continuing to read.

Her eyes don't leave him. Even after all these years, she still finds him striking. The silver threading through his dark locks has become more abundant over recent years but it only serves to make him look more distinguished and, if it were at all possible, more attractive. It's a bit annoying because Hermione feels herself succumbing to a decidedly drab greyness that makes her look like she's been left out in the sun too long. Not that the sun wouldn't be a welcome change, she thinks, as her attention is drawn again to the hectic flurry of snowflakes outside the window.

"They couldn't have chosen a worse day to tackle Diagon Alley." She nods at the window.

Severus keeps his finger on the page but follows her gaze. "Mmmm." He frowns in concern. "I'll give them another twenty minutes. Then I might go out."

Despite her husband's age, Hermione isn't concerned about him battling the weather. He has lost very little condition over the years and could put men far his junior to shame.

He returns to his book, his hand absently lifting to tug at his side-burn as his lips twitch—a more subdued response to some other preposterous claim, no doubt.

Hermione sighs.

"Do you want me to go now?" he asks.

He knows her too well.

"I just wish—"

There is a sudden commotion in the hallway. They hear voices, the stomping of boots and rattling of parcels.

She smiles with relief and he reaches over to squeeze her hand fondly. "You worry too much."

"They never stop being your children," she murmurs, squeezing him back before flicking the wool free and continuing to knit.

Moments later, the door bursts open and a tall, dark-haired man strides in, a flush high on his cheeks and a dusting of snow clinging to his dark curls.

"Bloody hell! It's mad out there. Diagon Alley was a zoo!" He drops an armful of packages on the table before using both gloved hands to brush down his cloak.

Hermione can't help but cast a swift drying spell over him.

"Thanks Mum." He grins before snatching up one of the packages. "I found this in the Muggle book shop. I thought you'd like it."

"Roland, you shouldn't have been buying for me!" she cries in shock. "You should have been in and out of there as quickly as possible."

He shakes his head dismissively. "Lily and Sophia were so well organised—they told me to leave. I had to do something."

Hermione gives a reluctant smile before taking the package. But it instantly turns into a beam of delight when she unwraps it.

"Robotics?" Severus' eyebrows shoot up. "Who's that for? Gabe?"

"No, it's for me." Hermione opens the book and skims over the writing. "Remember I told you that we're covering robots in Muggle Studies at the moment? The students need to know how they work, how to program them. Thank you, Love." She looks up at her son fondly. "This is pitched at exactly the right level for them."

Roland nods, then laughs at his father's disapproving pout. "Don't worry, I have something for you too." He dips his hand into his pocket and tosses a small felt-covered box to Severus who catches it cleanly.

Inside is a beautiful brass fob watch. Severus instantly removes the time piece, holding it up to the lamplight to run his practiced eye over the intricacies of the craftsmanship and inner workings. "This is excellent," he murmurs. "How much do I owe you?"

Roland snorts in a manner identical to his father. "Nothing. Leave it to me in your will."

"You've got a while to wait before that happens," Severus chuckles, a deep, rolling bass note that reverberates in his chest.

"That'll give me time to build an extra room to house it all," Roland responds dryly, his voice also a similar timbre to his father's.

"There aren't that many," Severus grumbles, continuing to gaze at the watch.

"Yes, there are that many," Hermione corrects him, turning more pages of her book.

Severus had developed what could only be described as an 'obsession with time' and, particularly, timepieces, collecting literally hundreds of them over the past few decades. Although she teased him about it, she didn't mind at all—she understood that it was his way of processing and, in effect, memorialising the significance of what had transpired all those years ago.

"Speaking of Gabe, did you manage to work out what was going on with his computer?" Roland looks between the two of them.

"Oh, your mother dealt with that. I had no idea what he was talking about." Severus waves his hand vaguely.

"It's fine," Hermione assures him. "Just a browser update causing compatibility issues with the software he's working with."

"It's a different programming language." Roland nods. "I told him it was going to affect his web pages."

"Do you two mind speaking in plain English?" Severus grouses. "I have endured enough technical gobbledy gook from the nine-year-old upstairs."

"Have you used that email account I set up on your tablet yet?" Roland asks him.

"No, I have not!" Severus snaps. "It is impossible to express one's displeasure effectively enough through that contraption."

"You're not still writing letters of complaint, are you?" Roland asks him, raising an eyebrow at Hermione.

She nods, a small smile on her lips.

"If people are going to publish blatant fabrications of the past, then they deserve a scathing letter and a nasty nip from Eugene," Severus responds. "Now, what's keeping the other two?" He looks at the door. "Where's my girl?"

"Here I am!"

A pretty redhead comes sweeping into the room, having changed out of her outdoor clothing.

Severus chuckles, leaning up to kiss her cheek as she bends down to kiss his. "I meant my _other_ girl?"

"Sophia's upstairs getting changed. She's very excited to show you what we bought today." Lily turns and kisses Hermione on the cheek before straightening and brushing her fringe out of her eyes. "But I swear Madam Malkin's prices are ten times what they were when we bought my Hogwarts uniform."

"Which is why Ginny has taken it upon herself to knit Sophia's robes and I've nearly finished her scarf, gloves and hat," Hermione reports, holding up her almost-complete scarf.

"And we so appreciate it." Lily assures her. "Although Sophia is a little worried that Grandma Ginny's knitting might be a little too similar to Great Grandma Molly's . . . but we bought the wool together so hopefully there isn't too much room for . . . interpretation."

Hermione grins. Ginny had certainly become like Molly in many ways but knitting wasn't one of them. "They're beautiful. I've seen them. I'll let Sophia know."

Lily sighs with relief. "At least that's one less thing to worry about. Now I'd better go and get the dinner started. Are you still doing dessert, Severus?"

"Of course," Severus responds, still fiddling with the watch.

"Can I ask what it is?" she asks, her brow furrowing in trepidation.

"No you cannot."

She nods as though it was expected.

"Lucky we love your surprises so much," she murmurs with a touch of sarcasm as she turns away.

He glances up sharply. "Cheeky witch," he growls. "Just like your father."

She grins over her shoulder, and that's when her likeness to Harry becomes most apparent. "Speaking of my father, he said he's coming over to play chess with you this weekend. But this time he's bringing his own board. He doesn't trust yours."

Severus' lips twitch in amusement. "He always was very distrustful, your father."

"With good reason," Roland mutters, returning to the other parcels on the table and starting to unwrap them.

"Perhaps . . ." Severus responds. "But it hasn't always been easy to know whom one can trust."

"No." Roland suddenly raises a hand. "I can feel another Voldemort story coming on. Not today, Dad. Please."

"How can you be so insolent about your history," Severus snaps irritably.

"It's not my history." Roland turns to him. "It's your history. And I understand that it was terrible but it's in the past. I just wish you would move on."

"I'd better get the vegetables on." Lily's words come in a rush before she quickly exits through the side door. She knows what's coming.

"Severus." Hermione places a hand on his arm.

He sits stock still. Black eyes locked upon his son. Roland's cinnamon eyes burn with a similar intensity. Neither had ever taken a backward step.

Severus' next movement is lightning fast. A sharp flick of his hand sends the chair opposite toppling backwards. Roland side-steps it before punching his fist forward, causing the cushion beside Severus to explode, a cloud of feathers shooting into the air. Severus waves his arm, ejecting books from a shelf so that Roland is forced to duck. He then sends a metal poker from the fire toward his father, who deflects it easily before winding and pulling his fist. Roland doesn't immediately sense the result but moments later he looks down in shock before toppling over, landing on the ground with a loud grunt.

Severus is instantly up, moving quickly to assist him to his feet. "Alright?" he asks.

"Yes, fine." Roland kicks his legs free. "But you've fucked up this lamp." He lifts the power cord that had been torn from the base of a standing lamp. "You realise this is electrical? I can't just fix it with magic."

Severus shrugs. "Can't Gabe fix it?"

Roland rolls his eyes. "I can fix the bloody thing. Just make sure you sort out the rest of this place."

Severus turns away and after a few swift movements, everything is as it was. Then he turns back and gives his son's shoulder a quick, affectionate squeeze before returning to his chair.

"I don't know why you insist on doing that," Roland grumbles as he continues to unwrap various miscellaneous objects for the house.

"Keeps you battle ready," Severus responds, plomping down heavily in his chair.

"Battle ready? The biggest battles I have are with the Muggle stapler and photocopier at work, Dad," Roland sighs.

Severus straightens his glasses. "Complacency is what allowed the Dark Lord to rise to power in the first place. By being vigilant, we ensure that it never happens again . . . that we all remain safe."

Roland is silent for a few moments. Hermione watches him. She and Severus had made the decision early on never to burden their son with what could have happened, with what he could have become. He'd grown into a wonderful man—clever, hard-working, kind and loving. But Severus struggled with how dismissive the future generations were of what might have easily destroyed the wizarding world. In fact, what would have destroyed it if not for—

"I'm sure any future Dark Lord would be extremely intimidated by the cushion and lamp attack that we've perfected." Roland's handsome face suddenly breaks into a grin.

Severus chuckles. "Well, if your mother would only allow direct combat, we wouldn't have to resort to such tactics."

Hermione shakes her head vehemently. "I've had more than had enough of fixing up the two of you after your stoushes. You're fortunate that I allow even that."

"You have put up with a lot." Roland nods empathetically before glancing pointedly at his father.

"I beg your pardon?" Severus looks offended.

"Look at that shoebox you still live in at Spinner's end." Roland tosses up a hand. "You could have bought something far bigger. You can barely fit a bed in it."

"That's all we need," Severus responds. His hand is instantly on Hermione's knee. Hermione looks at him and can't help grinning as he sexily nudges up one eyebrow. Whilst she might feel the years catching up with her, Severus had never indicated that he found her any less attractive. In fact, their sex life was as it had always been . . . a perfect blend of lust and love.

"Too much information, Dad," Roland mutters. "As per usual. Seriously, I don't understand it. You both could have retired ages ago and bought something lovely but look at you, still working, still commuting from a tiny house."

"And still in love." Severus rubs her knee gently.

"Yes . . . . well. You're lucky."

"And so are you," Severus responds.

"Don't worry. I know it."

"What do you know, Daddy?"

They all look up to see Sophia standing in the doorway.

Roland beams as he spreads his arms wide. "That I'm the luckiest daddy in the world, with the most wonderful children. Look at you!"

Sophia is wearing her Hogwarts school uniform. Hermione notes with a rush of warmth that she has already perfected the tie. That was probably what had kept her so long.

" _And_ you have the most wonderful wife and parents in the world," Sophia adds.

"Of course I do. I'm a very lucky man." Roland nods before striding forward to give her a hug.

When she releases him, Sophia rushes up to Hermione and Severus.

"What do you think?" She beams, her eyes shining with excitement.

"You look ready to take on the world." Hermione smiles wistfully, reaching out and taking her hand. "You're really going to love it. I know Professor McGonagall is very much looking forward to your arrival."

Sophia's smile grows even wider. "What do you think, Grandpa?"

Severus is unusually quiet. He takes her other hand and just gazes at her for a long moment before murmuring softly, "So grown up."

"Of course I'm growing up," Sophia giggles. "But I'll never be too big for this." And she instantly collapses onto his lap.

Severus puts an arm around her and she rests her head comfortably on his shoulder. It had never been any different. Throughout her life, Sophia had always sought the solace of her grandfather. He had read her hundreds of books as she'd rested against him exactly as she was now, told her stories of the past which, unlike her father, she'd lapped up tirelessly, and simply held her when she was upset or had had a bad dream.

Sophia's younger brother, Gabe, was much more likely to seek out Hermione and so she and Severus had spent many evenings, as their parents attended functions or went out to visit friends, sitting before the fire, a child each, smiling contentedly.

Now Sophia absently tugs at one of the buttons on Severus' coat.

"Grandpa?" Her voice holds a note of uncertainty.

"Yes." He tilts his head toward her a little.

"Which house do you think I will be sorted into?"

Severus pauses to consider her words. "Any house would be extremely fortunate to have you. Do you have a preference?"

"Well . . ." She chews her bottom lip for a moment. "I think I would like to be in Gryffindor but . . ."

She doesn't continue.

"But?" Severus prompts.

She sighs and sits forward to look him in the eyes. "But a Gryffindor has to be brave. And . . . I don't know if I am."

Severus stares at her. Then his face pinches with pain, his brow furrowing and his eyes turning glassy. When he speaks, his voice is hoarse with emotion, barely a whisper. "You, Sophia, are the bravest person I've ever known."

Roland gives him a quizzical look but Hermione nods reassuringly at her son before reaching over to grasp Severus' hand.

"Grandpa." Sophia slaps him gently on the chest. "You're being silly . . ." She continues to look at him intently, sensing the depth of his emotion but not understanding it. "But thank you anyway."

Sliding her arms around him, she tucks her head under his chin. "I'll do my best to make you proud."

"Don't worry," he murmurs, stroking her hair. "You already have." Hermione feels him squeeze her hand and finds herself loving him even more. Then his eyes move to his son who has his hands in his pockets, a small contented smile on his lips. "All of you," Severus continues, addressing him directly. "You've made me prouder and happier than you can ever know."


End file.
